Published Articles

HALIBUT EYE
by Karen Ackland

Recently Suzanne noticed that her nose appears to have shifted to the left of her face. Her right shoulder is permanently raised in a defensive hunch and, like a halibut, one eye has rotated to the back of her head. And these are just the things she can see in the mirror.

She has come to the mall to buy a pair of shoes and thinks that as long as she is here, she should look around. When Suzanne was younger she wanted to be tall with thick, auburn hair. When neither of these qualities materialized, she hoped to become elegant and bought silk blouses on the cool side of the color wheel. She expected her life to string together like jade beads, memories knotted one after the other, but now when the square plates insist on more of her attention than the suede mules, Suzanne can't remember what she wants.

She orders a latte at the stand in front of Nordstrom's and sits at a small table observing the shoppers around her. In front she watches a group of young women whose white bellies bulge beneath cropped tops. Behind her a young man is talking on a cell phone. Repeatedly he mentions "family emergency" and "minimum order."

Because Suzanne is focused front and back, she doesn't see her ex-husband approach her from the side.

"You didn't used to drink coffee," he says as he sits down.

She shrugs, "Now I probably drink too much." She left him twenty years before in another town when both eyes were in the front of her head.

"Still having problems with decisions, I see."

"There is nothing I need," Suzanne gestures vaguely at the neighboring stores. "I have so much already." She doesn't really believe this, but she likes to say it. She hopes her reluctance to consume is a virtue, but suspects it reveals a failure to focus.

"I'm sorry we never painted the kitchen."

"I didn't like yellow then," she explains. "And green didn't seem to be an option."

"It might have made a difference." She thinks about this. Looking at her ex-husband with one eye, he seems the kind of man she could have lived with for a long time. She's forgotten the comfortable way he leans into a conversation; how he waits for her agreement. And then she remembers.

"I would like the soup tureen," she says. "When it's convenient." After she moved, she always intended to go back and pick it up, but never found the right time.

"Still in the box," he replies. "I'll drop it by."

When she looks at him with her other eye, he is a stranger. His body has thickened and tufts of gray hair curl above his ears. Her current husband has aged better. She will have to remember to turn her head when this one brings the soup tureen or she will not know who he is.

###

After the Wall

A Pitying of Turtledoves

Cooking Lessons

DoubleSpace

Garbanzo Beans

Halibut Eye

Ketchup and Convertibles

Mango Margaritas

Moving In

Not the Same

One and Only

Una Palma

13 Questions About Irony