Sandra She discovered herself in the mirror. Leaning on the basin, she pulled back a strand of thin yellow hair with the thumb of her cigarette hand. The bruise around her left eye was losing its color, but was still tender. The episode in which it blossomed played in her thoughts like a Friday night rerun you just keep watching, out of boredom, out of complacency; never moved enough to change the channel. She took a metered drag from her cigarette. The smoke didnt burn her lungs. Shed been smoking since she was thirteen. It was habit, but she wasnt sure if she was addicted. She had never wanted to stop smoking. She didnt want to now. How could she know if she was addicted or not, unless she stopped. She blew the smoke out of her mouth in a torrent. It mushroomed on her face in the mirror, then dissipated slowly. She thought of her brother Jessie when he was on junk. He had told her he quit for a week, so he knew he wasnt addicted yet. But he shot up that night. It was wishful thinking, she new. He was fooling himself. Was she fooling herself, she thought? What is it which sets us apart from the rest of the animals, our expanded brain power or our advanced skill in convincing ourselves of anything? Jessie died last year, twenty-four years old. He was her brother, being what she thought a brother should be, but he was hardly around when she entered her late teens. Thats when she married Daniel. They started dating when she was thirteen, then tapered on and off until she was fifteen; then they got serious. Daniel was a senior; she met him at a football game. He and Kevin Mahue were sitting behind her and Sarah Flemming, flirting and dropping popcorn on them. Later that night, they had gone to his old-mans garage out side of town. They had gotten drunk in the office. How clean and tidy that office was, shell always remember. She had a notion that Daniel would be like his father. But there was little clean and tidy about her husband. Funny, how the single thing that impressed her about her future husband was a trait of someone else, a trait he didnt share. They got married when she turned seventeen, with her parents consent. Five years later, she hated the man. She knew he didnt hate her, but she didnt understand the violence or his capacity to forgive himself. He was not an evil man, but none the less, he was hurtful. She did not love him, and she was not loved. She was smart enough to not expect storybook love, but whispered in prayers, told in bathroom girl-talk is the hint of something, some powerful benevolent caring that heals and compels a person to better herself. What is that? Where is that? It must exist in some form, if not only in the happily ever after endings of romantic comedies, in some other form perhaps, an obscure truth of pop culture and mythology. Something, some feeling or desire has occurred at one point to cause these myths. If only to partake a little, could she feel whole? Sarah Flemming had been her best friend; she never married; went to college in Boston and became a graphic artist. They talked on the phone off and on, but less and less, lately. Last Christmas, she actually chastised her for not leaving Daniel. Sandra, you are too smart to put up with this shit, she had said. Even with a voice thinned by distance and technology, it resounded with great influence. Honey, you should have gone to college. And pretty too, youd have no problem finding a man at the university. It wouldnt be to hard to upgrade from your present condition. These last words hurt, hurt to the core. She had the feeling of a little girl when mom says just wait till your dad gets home, sister! The face in front of her looked familiar, a close relative. Young, pretty; it had the eyes of one beginning to see what was on the other side of the hill. She knew this person well. But there were questions about her character. Could she be counted on? Could she love? Could she be a mom? A bumper sticker came to mind - Having a child does not make one a parent any more than owning a brush makes one a artist. Sandra stepped back to view more of her form. She rubbed her small belly with her right hand. She was thin, the envy of her friends. She held the cigarette up in her left hand. The visage somehow looked ugly, not glamorous like the advertisements. She threw the cigarette into the toilet; it hissed its contempt. Now she wanted to quit smoking. Sandra was surprised how quickly she had gathered her belongings. A time constraint also kept her frugal; Daniel was no longer passed out in his Lazy Boy, but sleeping. He didnt snore when he was passed out. She stood between him and the door. He did not look peaceful in his sleep, but agitated. All the years they were together, he did not reveal what made him so pissed off at the world. What was he afraid of? She could not figure it out. He twitched, but she was not afraid of him waking up. This was to be. She studied his face. He frowned, as if some subconscious voice told him what she was doing. Sandras world fit into two medium suitcases, which she threw into the back seat of her pearl white 68 Camaro. She did not use the trunk because she would have had to slam it. She still felt confident, but didnt want to test fate. Her jeans felt a little tight when she sat down; she adjusted them. She fired up the beast, working the gas and clutch with bare feet. The car was not quiet, but she drove off without incidence. Sandra saw Mary Weaver watch her drive away from her kitchen window.