Skinny Matilda's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

Matilda stood on the porch of the country grocery store with the peach warm in her palm. The roses were still inside, blossoms-down in the fruit where she had left them. Her hands would not stop shaking. She had said the true thing out loud, and it had not fixed anything. The count was still running in her head. One for Timothy. Two for the cashier who watched her ribs while she paid. Three for the woman on the porch bench who looked up from her phone as the screen door slapped shut. She tried to stop. She closed her eyes and pressed the peach against her sternum and counted her breaths instead. Four. Five. Six. But the numbers kept sliding back to the looks. A man loading crates paused with a box against his hip. Seven. A boy on a bike slowed at the rail. Eight. Her throat closed. She sat down hard on the top step. The peach rolled from her hand and thudded against the boards. A shadow crossed her knees. Matilda flinched and started to add nine. Then she saw it was only a small brown dog nosing the fallen peach. No owner in sight. The dog looked at her face, not her body. It sniffed the fruit, licked the fuzz, then sat down on her bare foot. Its weight was warm and solid. Matilda put her hand on its back and felt the ribs under the fur, thinner than hers. She laughed once, out loud, a short surprised sound. The count stopped. She waited for it to start again. It did not. The porch was quiet. The dog leaned harder into her ankle. She sat there for what felt like a long time and let the number in her head stay at eight. When she stood up, her legs held. She picked up the bruised peach and carried it back inside. She walked past the roses lying dead in the fruit and did not touch them. At the register she asked for a paper bag and put the peach inside and paid the extra dime. Walking out the second time, she did not look at the woman on the bench or the man with the crates. She was not refusing to count. She simply did not. The good day had started at eight and she meant to keep it there. She knew the count would come back. Tomorrow, or in an hour, or the next time a stranger's eyes dropped to her hipbones. But she had found the off switch once, by accident, on a porch, with a stray dog on her foot. That was new. That was hers.