If luck were my lady, her fingers would weave like spindles in between my own. The warmth of her palm would radiate in my hand while we sat in the back of our cab, Chicago nightlights whirring outside liquor-fogged windows, our drive never ending. She’d let her nose graze the side of my jaw and I’d thank God I could call her mine, if only for the evening, if only for the hour, if only for this brief moment in time.

 

I wouldn’t worry she’d leave my side. We’d hit the lottery, the jackpot, buying homes and cars until our hearts were content. We’d pick and choose what property to stay at day to day—our villa in Paris? Our cabin in Spokane? We’d stay curled up in Egyptian cotton sheets all day, bare feet tangled together and eager hands always traveling north, south, westbound, eastbound, to every curve and crevice in between. The sex would be amazing.

 

I’d tattoo a horseshoe on the back on my neck in her honor. She’d squeal with excitement as the needle whirred, the artist’s hand always steady but never still—shading, perfecting, crafting until my lady nodded her head in approval. “Yes,” she’d say, “that’s exactly it.”

We’d use our endless fortune to pay for scientific discovery. Our money would pave the way to a miracle serum, carbonated immortality in a bottle and it’d taste like Vanilla Coke.  We’d sip until the fizz was in our nose, challenging one another to belching contests and wishing that we could burp bubbles like they do in the cartoons. We’d drink expensive scotch until it went straight to our heads, rolling on the floor watching the ceiling swirl. She’d begin to cry, softly, drunken tears she couldn’t reason with, and I’d ask her if she was thinking about someone else.

 

She’d begin to sleep with her back to me. It’d be too hot to be close, our bodies too accustomed to comfort. She’d sleep with her feet curled, legs pulled to her chest, mine still searching for her at the end of our California king. Our trips would slow, the thrill long gone after visiting every country in the world. She’d begin to feel distant. She’d start saying things like “eternity is just a long time” over dinner.

 

If luck were my lady, it wouldn’t last. I’d beg, I’d plead, I’d buy her every gift she’d ever asked for, every flower known to man, a diamond for every day I’d been able to call her mine. She’d tell me we never had anything in common.

***

Tayler Karinen lives in Saginaw, Michigan. She graduated from Central Michigan University with a MA in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her fiction has previously appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, The Roadrunner Review, Cardinal Sins, The Harpoon Review, and Cease, Cows. One day, she hopes to pursue a MFA, publish a collection of flash fiction, and make her cats proud.

One thought on “Frank Sinatra didn’t know what he was asking for ~ by Tayler Karinen

Comments are now closed.