A Key

Gretta is the plump woman who runs the market around the corner from my apartment. She wears a red apron and always checks my I.D. when I ask for the whiskey behind the counter. She has seven keys on the key ring she keeps in the front pocket of her apron. The big silver one is for the front door of the store, the littlest one is for the cash register and the one with the most teeth is for the back room which looks like a liquor cabinet. The long skinny one is for her husband's pickup which hasn't run since Clinton was in office. The two gold ones are for the deadbolts on the front door of her house. The last one, the rusty one with the very jagged teeth, is for the small wooden box on the top shelf of the cupboard above the stove.

She has to pull up a chair from the dining room to reach it, but first she has to make sure her husband isn't home. On tip-toe she can just grasp the box, it isn't heavy. She sets it on the counter and puts the key, the rusty one with the very jagged teeth, in the keyhole and she steps back to catch her breath.

"I can't. I can't. I can't." She says quietly. A trickle of sweat runs beneath her loose blouse, down the thick fatty rolls of her back.

"I can't." She hates her husband in this moment. She hates her ballooning body and sagging breasts. She hates the red apron.

She delicately pinches the key, the rusty one, and removes it from the keyhole. She climbs on the chair and, on tip-toe, slides the box back onto the top shelf. She slips the key ring back into the pocket of the red apron, slides the chair back under the dining room table and lights the stove. It's spaghetti tonight. He'll hate it.