Margarine
Form: Flash Fiction
Approximate Length: 950 Words
Genre(s): Contemporary
Themes: Memories, Escape, Expectations
You hear the bus coming before you see it, not even sure if it’s real or remembered anymore. It kicks up dust into your eyes as it sputters to a stop, and you have to stop yourself from coughing as your eyes water. The hem of your sulu’s already ruined from the hike to Church, and you’re dreading washing it. First, you glance at the driver. It’s not the old man that gave you candy last Friday, as though you were still the same 12 year old who got mud on his seats. It’s the woman who drives up the bike lane and likes to scream Spanish curses at the cars ahead.
The curve is full of broken concrete and you hesitate when the automatic steps start jamming, but everyone’s waiting, so you hop on anyway. Restless eyes look through you and away again as others board behind you. You look for your seat, the same you’ve had since forever. Someone’s in it, so you take the seat next to them. You’ve never sat here before, and it feels hard, with lots of bumps. A familiar vomit-green backpack lays open on your lap as you rest your head on the window, trying to ignore the smell of cassava chips and smoke, so deeply engraved in the bus that nothing could remove it.
You hiss, sucking in your teeth. It’s too cold. You close your eyes as the Chapel passes out of sight, only to open them again when a red light causes the Spanish to start anew. It feels like you’re going nowhere, and you manage a bitter smile.
There are children outside, stick-like and excited, dancing around near the road as a stray dog ambles up to them, eying their snacks. You were among them once. Eyes gleaming and fingers sticky because you liked eating margarine directly from the tub. Margarine. When was the last time you had margarine? You eat butter now. You all do.
As the wharf comes up, you remember how you used to jump off with your friends before going to school, getting scolded by the teacher because your hair was wet and you forgot your badge again. Mr. Hinkson shook his head at you, muttering a casual ‘she’ll grow up’ to your teacher. You watch yourself shrugging it off, barely listening to the lecture as you prepare to go out again when the bell rings.
Of course, as you grew older, your bad habits faded, replaced with payday, neverending church gatherings, and bread before butter. Your hair grew drier, with little to no attention, and your face sunk in, no longer youthful as the girl you used to be. Your mother commended you, saying that you looked like a woman now. You agreed with her, and refused to look in the mirror every now and then.
Breaking the daydream, you look around in a daze. The bus is loud, and everyone’s talking on top of each other. You realize, all at once, that you know every person on this bus. They’re people you’ve talked with after sermons, shopkeepers you’ve lost a bargain to at the markets, grandfathers who admonished you when you spoke too loudly. Everyone’s here, and it almost felt like you could fit your whole life into this bus ride.
A sharp pain, followed by a dull throbbing in your knee breaks your reverie. You got up too quickly and hit the seat in front of you. You keep your head down to avoid recognizing the person in the next row, not caring if it was rude. Everyone in the bus is staring at you, and some grandmothers in the back are asking who’s daughter you are and what district you were from again. You rush out of the bus, stumbling on air as you forget that the automatic stairs are jammed today, and pay no heed to the Spanish that follows you.
You start running, quite the spectacle on a lazy Sunday morning. Most of everyone’s still getting back from church, so you only get a couple burning gazes. Their eyes brand you, some haughty, others pitying, all expectant. A headache is building, and you feel out of breath, out of place, on this lazy Sunday morning.
You stop at the place it all began, a house that was fine when you left it this morning, yet falling apart when you take a second look. There are cracks in the foundation, and another wasp nest your ma will have you sweep away tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.
The years will run on, in this little town, with its lazy Sunday mornings and that bus with a Spanish woman who drives up the bike lane. You will forget the wharf, and the children dancing around. You will remember to take care of your hair every once in a while, and you’ll get better at bargaining with the market aunts. You will never wonder if perhaps you missed something somewhere. You will never feel like the house is falling apart. You will never notice that everyone you ever knew and everything you will ever know can fit inside that bus.
You will become that grandmother who hardly remembers which district you’re from, the ice cream aunt who sets up shop every day, pretending that her goods are limited to cheat the tourists, and the teacher who scolds little girls with sticky fingers and wet hair.
You look at the door, watching as the younger you flys through the threshold, not paying attention to where they’re going. You see yourself, ignorant and perfect, stuck in a time when you still ate margarine and jumped off the wharf.
You stop. You look. You walk.