4/27/12
Dan shut the refrigerator door and, for the hundredth time, the picture magnet fell off.  It struck the toe of his shoe just right to send it skittering under the refrigerator.  He kneeled down and felt under the front edge of frig for the magnet, but only swept up lint.  His wife kept a magnetic flashlight stuck to the side of the fridge, which he now grabbed and turned on.  Kneeling again, with his cheek smooshed to the linoleum floor, he squinted with his left eye under the frig, scanning back and forth with the flashlight beam.  The magnet had slid all the way to the back side of the fridge, just in front of the wall.  Dan’s wife didn’t keep any coat hangers convenient magneted to the side of the fridge, so scanning around the kitchen and dining room for something long and skinny, he found his wife’s red umbrella in the stand by the closet.  He grabbed that and headed back to the fridge.  It was a tight fit, but managed to wedge the umbrella under the fridge.  Alas, it was one of those dainty little umbrellas.  What he needed was something closer to the length of a golf umbrella.  He yanked the umbrella back, but it was caught.  The ends of the spines that stretch the fabric open when deployed had caught the underside of the front of the fridge like a fishhook.

4/25/12
Sigh.  It’s definitely a shoe-shopping day.  I’m going cross-eyed reading all these damn affidavits.  The attorneys are all being whiny little bitches.  The bailiff is out sick and his sub is an idiot.  Lunch sucked.  I spilled my coffee all over my credenza.  Sigh.  Why can’t this day just be over?  Maybe something red with straps.  Macy’s had those cute little black heels.  Maybe some new tennies.  The cat has probably puked all over the new couch by now, or missed the litter box again.  Maybe I should start smoking.  I could probably score some weed off one of the defendants.

4/25/12
The backhoe groaned and clanked and scraped as its bucket plunged into the earth, clearing out a neat rectangular space for the funeral that was to happen later that afternoon.  The gravedigger that was operating it was soaked through.  His yellow slicker and wellies had stopped being helpful about an hour ago as the rain had finally crept down his collar and through his jeans and into the tops of his boots.  He made a squishing noise every time he moved his arms or pushed a pedal.  He was a walking swimming pool.  Mary was making applesauce in the church kitchen.  It would be warm and fragrant as he sat down to sample it.  Just one more grave to dig first.

4/20/12
It was a sunny, breezy day--sweatshirt weather--as Steve sat on the park bench, typing his sales report and eating a sandwich.  A bit of lettuce had broken off and dropped onto his computer and was now lodged underneath the spacebar and now the spacebar wouldn’t space.  It was funny, he thought, how people’s brains seemed to check out the moment they walked into the store.  They asked him all kinds of questions about this refrigerator or that dishwasher, as if he had owned each one and knew intimately each one’s strengths and weaknesses.  He responded as if he were an expert, and customers seemed to sense he was full of shit, but usually they’d take his suggestions anyway.  If he weren’t concerned with seeming to provide quality customer service, he’s simply say, “You get what you pay for, buy the one you can afford,” and walk away.   

4/19/12
Ntemba looked down at his bare feet, not knowing how to answer the question just posed to him: “Where did you get those sunglasses?”  It was one of the those questions the mine owner liked to ask not because he wanted to know the answer, but because he already knew the answer.  Ntemba had found them on the ground two days ago, and decided to try them on.  The feel of the glasses, and the look of himself in the window glass made him feel amazing.  So amazing he couldn’t give them up.  He knew he should have, but he couldn’t give away that feeling of well-being, confidence, and yes, even style.  They were sleek and curvy black Oakleys with polarized lenses, and the white oblong “O” on the temples.  “I found them in the dirt outside the mine,” Ntemba finally managed to mutter.  “I meant to give them back but...but...I liked them so I tried them on.”  The shouting that followed from the pale-skinned man in the pinstriped suit stuck with Ntemba for many years afterward.  All his inspiration and high hopes of ever seeing a different life drained away as the verbal berating washed over him, in awful, dreadful waves.

4/18/12
Tina decided to learn ballet.  She didn’t stick with it more than a day, but she was thrilled for the week leading up to her first lesson.  She picked out the cutest pink shoes, found a leotard just her size, and even found leg warmers (against all odds) at a thrift store.  On the big day, she pulled her hair up into the tightest, most painful bun she could manage at the top of her head.  She put rouge on her cheeks.  She packed her new duffle bag with a change of clothes, water bottle, powder, and all the accoutrements a proper ballerina should have.  By the end of class though, Tina had come to realize that she was 30 years too late and 50 pounds too heavy for learning ballet.  Her illusions shattered, she went back to court-reporting.

4/17/12
Fish and chips wasn’t really what Sam wanted for lunch, but he had the burger yesterday and it wasn’t any good.  Neither the fish nor the chips were any good either, but oh well, too late now.  He had spent every morning for the past three days scanning the bottom of the Thames to find two bodies.  The effort was futile.  You can’t see anything in the Thames.  Too much pollution, algae, and silt.  He resented that he was going to smell like the Thames for the next week or so.  But the police chief wanted to show that he was doing his due-diligence to solve a crime, so Sam was swimming around in sewer water every morning.  He hoped the fish he was choking down now didn’t come out of the Thames...