Don’t Tell Sela ‘It’s All In Her Head’
A short story
Sela doused the grimy kitchen counter with homemade cleaner — vinegar, fresh lemons, and baking soda diluted in water. She scrubbed intently, scouring away the smatterings of butter, grease, eggs, chopped onions, and who knew what else.
She moved from the kitchen to the front door, closing it against the cool autumn breeze and subdued sunshine. She would not be subdued again. The door locked and bolted, Sela glanced at her clock radio but decided against playing music. What if he was like one of the “guests” on Sally Jessie Raphael and had plans to capture and torture her? She needed to hear every little sound — just in case.
She put her fear and anger back into scrubbing the kitchen counters until they gleamed. Sela walked over to the kitchen sink, humming, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” and gazed at her reflection in the shiny silver faucet. She forced a smile but it crept across her face as a curled lip grimace — one of terror, audacity, and rage. Who the hell did he think he was anyway?
Sela looked down at her bare feet: hair sprouting from her toe knuckles, her skinny chicken legs that led up to her large chest. The chest that captured unwanted attention from many men and some women, too. She rinsed her hands and patted them dry on the cotton hand towel printed…
