Commitmint by Karen Henderson

Margot realised that Cheryl had left her sunglasses behind. The pair of gaudy Ray Bans, tortoise-shell rimmed and bug-eyed, lay on the cheap lipstick-coloured vinyl table top of the diner booth, twinkling like forbidden gems.

She sucked her mint chocolate chip milkshake through a straw, the condensation from the striped cup cold on her hand, and then considered what she’d do next. By now her old schoolmate would have reached her SUV, two squalling brats in tow. The sky was cloudy now. She wouldn’t remember the glasses.

Margot looked at the convex mirror reflecting the diner’s entrance, meant to save the cashier from the bored violence of small town hoodlums and the shoplifting attempts of knock-kneed school kids in need of chocolate and recognition. Her fish-eyed reflection gawped back at her, showing greying red hair the colour of the vinyl booth, and an expressionless freckled face.

Margot remembered how her insides had tightened when Cheryl had spotted her and slid into the booth next to her. ‘What are you doing back in town, Margot? It’s been so long. How have you been?’ she’d squealed.

Cheryl had then had the nerve to ask, voice bright, her long painted nails grasping a grimy toddler covered in ice cream, if Margot had “found her man yet”. That blond princess: always perky, bleached and waxed, she’d had the perfect ass in high school.

When Margot said that teaching her literature class at the local community college took up all of her valuable mating time, Cheryl had breathed out, “Our Margot, so INTELLECTUAL,” and patted her hand like someone consoling a grieving widow. Bitch. 

Cheryl had then launched into a long monologue about her job at the salon, her two baby ‘angels’, her husband Jeremy who worked in some oil field up north; Margot had zoned out about halfway through, only to be brought back to the conversation when one of the ‘angels’ had thrown the remnants of his cone at Margot, narrowly missing her head.

Not running into washed-out high school peers was one of the many perks of the city, Margot thought. She wasn’t sure why she’d packed up and moved back home to her hometown, except for the fact that when you feel small anywhere, you were nearly non-existent in a big city like New York. 

Margot breathed in deeply, her fingers tightening around the milkshake cup. She didn’t need to steal Cheryl’s glasses; what did she even mean to her now, anyway? So Cheryl had been popular; Cheryl had been beautiful; Cheryl had been loved. Surely Margot, a woman of 33 with two degrees, was above petty thievery in an attempt to ‘stick it’ to the graduating class’s golden girl of 2004.

She closed her eyes. She could still remember that day, sobbing in the bathroom sinks, as a younger, nonchalantly cruel Cheryl laughed at her cheap clothes, boyish hair and virgin status. She’d stayed in that bathroom for nearly an hour after, afraid that Cheryl might come back.

Margot opened her eyes. She took a final suck of the milkshake, and made a decision. Taking one last look at the cashier, who was absorbed by her phone, Margot’s right hand beetled out, grabbed the arm of the forgotten glasses, and slowly pushed them into her purse.

They fit in neatly beside the purloined key chain; stolen lipstick holder; an illegally acquired mug, lip prints still on the glass; and her prize item: a slim silver cigarette holder. She trembled, and let out a long breath. Her fingers relaxed around the cup, leaving crumpled grooves. There. She felt better; she felt grounded; she felt safe.

A horn honked outside. Cheryl, in her candy-pink Land Rover, was waving enthusiastically at Margot. She waved back with her right hand, while her left hand tightened into a fist. Standing up, she grabbed her bag of treasures, and left the diner. She’d be there again next Thursday, when mint-chocolate milkshakes were on special again.

About the Author

Born in Canada, Karen Henderson now lives and works in Dublin, Ireland. She is passionate about writing in many genres but has a special love for slice-of-life, sci-fi and spooks, as well as poetry. She contributes regularly to the Irish zine This is Not Where I Belong and has worked in journalism, publishing and documentary.