Kaleidoscope

Get some help, Marianne. 

Fiona’s parting words knock me onto the couch. So much for sharing a dorm room next year. Underneath the blunt-burnt cushion is the neon pink kaleidoscope I redeemed before the bank foreclosed on the arcade. Fiona conned two tickets from a lonely teen in exchange for a dry peck on the cheek because the chip-toothed jackass behind the counter wouldn’t let me slide. She’s a reformed, born-again, bible thumper now. She’s mad because I won’t let her thump me. I preferred the way we used to thump before she straddled the good book. 

I take a bite of my PB&J, letting its artificial grape blob slink down my chin, and affix the kaleidoscope over my right eye. The optic nerves in lefty are still recovering from the Fiona incident. The bendable rings from the quarter capsule machine are more durable when resting on a knuckle.

A green hexagon appears in the center. It splits into six pairs of crisscross lines like double helixes. X marks the spot. I search for gold.

Yellow speckles trickle to the center like rain, converging into a flower. It explodes, each petal rockets in six different directions, six shooting stars screaming across the sky. I make six wishes.

A red blob morphs into a heart ripe with lust, and it’s gone. Like Fiona’s lips. I twist the tube back the other way, searching for the heart, knowing that isn’t how the toy works. It’s not an electrocardiogram. 

I toss the trinket across the room. A wad of white bread and peanut butter sticks in my throat. My frail pulse hums and dwindles to a stop. I spit out the glutinous gob and take a breath.

Goodbye, Fiona.