fwriction

I’ve made no secret of my adoration for Elliott Holt. Her writing is f***ing gorgeous, and her insights and wit often make my day.

This story, “Fem Care,” published in The Kenyon Review, has won a Pushcart Prize and is included in the 2011 anthology. Holt is going to win a lot of prizes, in the end. She’s damn good.

Enjoy this prize-winning story of the day, and have a cup of coffee for me.

In my hotel room, I break into the mini-bar even though it’s against company policy. I eat a can of Pringles and a bag of Peanut M&Ms. I’m halfway through a jar of cashews when I drift off. I dream of babies in jester hats, floating in a pool. There are babies everywhere, forming circles like synchronized swimmers, kicking their dimpled pink legs in the air, in unison, until the image divides, cleaving like a zygote, and then subdivides and subdivides again, creating a kaleidoscope of plump baby limbs against the chlorinated blue.

I am woken by a knock at my door. Housekeeping has already been there to turn down my bed, it’s almost two in the morning, but I open the door anyway. It’s Susan Graves. She’s swept her hair up and her eyes are a little puffy, but she’s still alarmingly beautiful. “I have your garment,” she says, as she brushes past me into my room.

I follow her. She tosses my wadded up dress onto the desk and sits down in the armchair by the window while I make a hasty attempt to brush the potato chip crumbs out of my sheets. I’m wearing my hotel robe and feel like a hausfrau. I can’t believe that Susan Graves is in my room.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that little sob fest today.”

I sit down on the bed, facing her. I would like to be her friend. We could make spa appointments together. We would read fashion magazines while we got pedicures. She’d help me choose a polish color. I’d gravitate toward a neutral pink, but she’d push me to try something a little more vibrant. A cherry red maybe. That would really be something.