Mentone Avenue |
Issue 12
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All the lawns on Mentone Avenue are mowed on Wednesday,
men in Bermudas, women in culottes riding or pushing the mechanized beasts, their engines heard up and down the street. Everyone on Mentone Avenue trims their bushes on Friday, no one knows who made these rules, but all agree, their yards are green, the bushes, shaped, people on other streets are envious. Saturday finds Mrs. Johnson sipping a martini lounging beneath her ancient willow tree Mr. Brown ogles her from his window she swirls two olives in her fancy glass. Mentone Avenue is empty Sunday mornings when most good people attend the local church but Mrs. Brown is visiting her mother, and Mr. Johnson has gone golfing. Mrs. Johnson sits alone in the back for easy exit, slips out when voices raise the roof in song. At her car, she drops her keys on the pavement, Mr. Brown is there to scoop them where they fall. Lightning strikes, and sparks fly as fingers touch, they glance at the church and laugh aloud. Mrs. Johnson nods toward the passenger seat, Mr. Brown grins and hops inside. Monday morning, Mr. Brown brings two coffees to the motel room he shared the night before with Mrs. Johnson still asleep in the bed. He hears a door open and familiar voices. Mr. Brown parts the curtains enough to peek onto the parking lot a few cars down. A couple leave the room across the way, the woman sports a scarf like the one he bought his wife. Mrs. Johnson wakes and finds her lover slouching in the chair beside the window with two coffees. She drinks from one and kisses him, but he’s silent, and points to the sparse parking lot. Taillights leave as Mrs. Johnson peers out, the license plate number catches her eye. She stumbles to the bed, spilling coffee on the sheets. Mr. Brown gets a towel to clean it up. Silence fills the car on the long drive back, pretense rules their homes when they arrive. Mr. Johnson tells his wife about his golf outing, Mrs. Brown talks about her mother. All the lawns on Mentone Avenue are mowed on Wednesday. Mrs. Johnson packs her bags and leaves for Vegas. Mr. Brown spends his time at local strip clubs, But he always trims his bushes on Friday. |
Mona Mehas writes poetry and prose from the perspective of a retired disabled teacher in Indiana USA. Her work has appeared in over 70 journals, anthologies, and online museums. Mona’s poetry chapbooks, Questions I Didn’t Know I’d Asked and Hand-Me-Downs available from LJMcD Communications and Amazon. She is querying her first novel.
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