She drove into the elementary school parking lot and shut off the engine of her small black car. Times like this were the most exciting moments of her life. She was about to step onstage trembling in both fear and anticipation. Nervously, she looked around if anyone was watching as she unbuckled her seat belt. Part of her just wanted to sit there forever in an unbuckled state, absorbing the moment between offstage and on, a twilight time where she floated to the savior clouds.
With a deep sigh, the time in the floating world at an end, she eagerly opened the car door to join the stream of people heading inside. Only once a year did she get the Big Chance to express herself. She noticed the reassuring official banner above the entrance way: "PRECINCT 12 VOTING". This was her time in the sun complete with society's stamp of approval. But even with the yearly buildup of anticipation, watching endless hours of discussion on TV and even in person, the hoped for feeling of final satisfaction never arrives - even when her candidate wins.
"This time will be different," she whispered like Charlie Brown lining up to kick Lucy's football.
She checked off the names she duly researched and vetted, those who would surely save her. And having done her duty she got to the real reason she rushed there, the last question on the ballot, the one that truly meant something to her: "Do you want a husband?" She selected "Yes" but wished there was a "Hell Yes!" to show how she truly felt. On her exit back out of the building she always felt a bit embarrassed, flushed with the excitement of the day, and hoping to meet a fellow comrade with whom to hold a shared discussion.
Today, she did not, disappointing her pounding heart. She settled back into her car, sitting and staring ahead, almost as if she were waiting for the red sea to part before her. She'd done the right thing, good things should happen to her - miracles even. The other 364 days of the year she was hamstrung, imprisoned in a cell of silent impotence, her voice heard only by the TV. Only on this day can change be made. Everyone agreed on that.
She made a point of congratulating herself on the feared drive home back to the letdown of her empty house. She opened the door to the awaiting neatness and perfectly placed decor. But her family heart cries out for more. She needs to give and to share. She'd done what she could to manifest her private dreams, the state secrets she kept hidden lest anyone find out she wasn't living the life she truly wanted. Without her dreams, life is nothing but a series of endless chores.
Her best friend, Baileys, called out to her from its black bottle. She tried to resist - the scar of the years ago DWI never healed - but rationalized a reward for herself. She drank to the edge of tipsyness while watching the talking heads on TV discuss voter turnout percentages and other painfully boring minutiae. The hangover of frustration always ambushed her after voting. If everyone agreed with her she'd be fine - and the world would be fine - because by default her unmet husband would agree with her valued vote too.
She sipped her truth serum while lamenting the same old refrain: "The opposition is keeping me from happiness!" Then she heard the sound of the mailbox lid closing and this excited her like a child getting a gift. That surprised her as she was expecting nothing out of the ordinary.
But she decided to follow her instincts and check outside. Perhaps her vote was already paying off! All the self-help books assured her she deserved a good man and a good life and all her dreams to come true. So many years she'd been waiting! Why is it so very hard to be with someone? What's the secret formula? To shatter the glass ceiling of love was all she wanted. To hell with everything else.
"I want to live," she whispered, "I want to live."
Sorting through the large amount of mail - the bills, the pleas from charity, the advertising inserts - she found a postcard. Alone among the received items, these inscribed letters were human; handwritten. This must be it! She focused to read the single line of the message:
"Please, give yourself a chance."
Dreams turned to nightmares. It was from him, The Interloper Who Must Not Be Named. How dare he contact her! Not even a chance at the football for you, Charlie Brown.
"No! Never, never!" she declared with furrowed brow, ripping it to pieces. Walking back to the living room after having properly disposed of the infuriating card in the kitchen trash, she abruptly stopped, unable to sit, but rather standing idly in untouched isolation, slamming shut the jail door, not open to honest debate, choosing the safety of aloneness.
And then she knew her actual vote.
Broke my own heart
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