Bethie

Bruised and beaten down after two hockey games and an overnight shift at a local clothing retail store at the mall Beth sits in the car seat like an invalid. Her legs are throbbing and burning with the pain of standing and playing in a hockey tournament. Beth’s head bobbles back and forth lacking the grace of a dashboard hula dancer as we merge off of the Neville Island Exit and head south on I-79.

“James” she inquires softly, “why doesn’t he love me anymore?”

“The Arab? Come on Beth, he wasn’t a good person to you.”

“Stop it!” she retorts, “I loved him. Alex was a really nice guy.”

Ahh yes the infinite Alex. The one whose parents wouldn’t let my baby sister come over to their house because she was not an Arab, the one who listened to his mother when told that because Beth was a rising hockey star because women did not belong in the work place and the one who left you for someone who would open their legs at will. Yea this guy was greater than Jesus for you babe.

“I guess you know best. I mean that guy wasn’t a fucking dick to you at was he?”

“You just hate him because he is Arab.”

“Oh to the contrary Beth, I just think that you are better off without him.”

“Then why hasn’t anyone but him loved me?”

This is one question I can’t answer. Maybe she was right, the kid who cheated on her has been the only one to seriously date her in a while. As screwed as the logic is, maybe she does actually know best.

Writhing in her seat from leg cramps and perpetual heart ache, there is nothing left for Beth to say. In her small world, Alex is the only guy that she figures she will ever know, or supposedly love her. This strong willed girl lies in the front seat of the car, completely broken.

“James,” she says meekly, head bobbing from side to side as we leave. “You know what would be nice.”

“What’s that babe?”

“I wish that, well I wish, that they would make a how to book on how to get back an Arab.”