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Oscarina

Updated on February 15, 2013

After he left she took the name Oscarina.

She claimed the scar tearing through the center, the honorific O, and the redundancy of a’s that stretched like a Tarzan call over the great jungle distances where apparently, Oscar had gone.

After two years of living together in a two bedroom condo with a ring on her finger, she had come home after working her second day at the DMV. There was pile of snail mail on the kitchen counter and a Facebook message on the computer--a public one on Oscar’s Wall.

“Lifelong dream, gone to Peru. Need to think things over, will be off line. Bye.”

She began ripping things apart.

“’Bye?’ Fucking ‘Bye?’” She kicked the couch, pain sluicing into her foot. “On a fucking public Wall?”

She emailed him, pounding the keys, snarling and virulent. She shouted 13 dangerous phone messages, then whirled her phone into the refrigerator. It clanged and rebounded into her shin.

“Fuckingouch.”

She hopped into their bedroom, tore his suits off hangers, kneeled backwards in his closet and pawed everything out like a dog digging sand. Scuba masks, wool sweaters, neatly folded jogging sweats, a whole box of un-running watches. Things splattered against the walls while she wondered why they were there, if he was not. After a while she plomped down in the wreckage and wondered the opposite: what had vanished along with him.

His computer and his motorcycle were gone, and his top bureau drawer was empty. There seemed to be fewer socks. More deliberately now, she unfastened his framed wildlife photos from the drywall and smashed them against the couch arm, pulling out glossy raccoons, bear, and staring iguanas and looking at the backing sheet and foam board. She ran her fingers through his other drawers, tore the sheets off the bed and shook them, looking for clues. The sheet smelled like his sweat, and she stuffed it against her face, inhaled and bawled. With sheet in both hands she yanked, but the cloth was stubborn and wouldn’t rip so she stepped on it, tangling the mascara-streaked sheet around her body. She tripped, fell, and landed with her face on the crotch of a pair of his pants. She snuffed up tears and the sourness of wool, the material like fine grit sandpaper against her cheek.

She stood and took off her pants. For a long while she looked around, hands on hips, legs rising naked in destruction. Then she pulled on Oscar’s pants and circled one of his belts around her waist. She dove an arm into a crumpled suit jacket. She looked into his closet mirror. She smiled, and put on the name.


If you'd like to read what happens next (the other woman...or man...but not both) let me know in a comment. Thanks!

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