Prince Charming

She tried to move that morning with mystery, but the door just swung and clicked decidedly, so she vowed to replace them all with beads, or blankets, or tapestries;

and by tapestries she meant Wal-Mart sheets, but if she cut the tags her baby wouldn’t know.

She tried to scent her hair like India, but her shampoo smelled like red no. 4, blue no. 12 and fake gardenias, the cheap perfumes that make you sneeze. So she would pour the necessary liquids of clean living into jewel-toned vessels and glass decanters stopped with cork;

and by jewel-toned she meant the green glow that bottles of long-drunk grocery store wine hold, but if she hid the plastic and tore off the labels her baby wouldn’t know.

Her man’d hit her face and left in a rage with all the romance and tragedy of a Nascar race, but that was okay. If her cheek purpled it was just from eating too many grapes off the stems, then she’d held them out to him; her little prince, charming in Batman underpants, grinned and grabbed and let the juice run down his chin. And if she had it her way, it’d never be “just another day” again.

‘Cause if I can’t find my way, she thought, at least you’ll have broomsticks and candles, my baby, my baby boy. We’ll nab you a little cinder-princess, isn’t that right? She may be wearin’ rags but you’ll never let her think she means less than the brightest smile I ever saw on your face, the day I fed you grapes, the day I decided to let the damn fairy tale begin.