By Jan English Leary
I’m at work where I’m supposed to be, in a staff meeting, but I’m also supposed to be at home with my son, Davy, who now calls the nanny Mommy instead of me.
If I were where I’m supposed to be, I’d be at home with my husband and child instead of at a Best Western with my co-worker, a man I don’t even like except for the shattering orgasms he gives me.
If I were at Pilates class, as I’m supposed to be, I wouldn’t be sitting alone in my car, listening to The Moth podcast, smoking my one cheat cigarette a day, popping mints to cover the smell.
When I go to the nursing home as I’m supposed to, I ask my father where he is. He usually complains he’s in his duplicate apartment, and how the hell did I find him? Today, he says, “I’m where I’m supposed to be.” So, I tell him I am too, which seems the only thing left to say.
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Jan English Leary is the author of three books published by Fomite Press. Her short fiction has appeared in such journals as Pleiades, Carve, Ghost Parachute, and Flash Fiction Magazine. She lives in Chicago.