Snapped by Pamela Klaffke

again; a filthy message from Jack describing what he wants me to do to him when we get to his place tomorrow. I replay this one three times and save it. There’s another message from Ted and another and another, then Eva and finally the shoe repair guy informing me that the boots I took in to be resoled are ready for pickup.
    I order another vodka and suck it back before calling Eva.
    “Oh my gosh, Sara, Ted’s really, really mad about the DON’Ts.”
    “He’ll get over it,” I say, buoyed by the vodka hitting my system.
    “Is that her?” I can hear Ted in the background. “Give me the phone. Sara? What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
    “Fucking relax, Ted. It’s funny.”
    “It is not fucking funny, Sara, it’s embarrassing. ”
    “Oh, please. No one can even tell who they are—they can’t be readily identified. ”
    “That’s hardly the point. These are our friends.”
    “ Your friends,” I correct him.
    “Yes, my friends, Sara. You should have run this by me. Gen is devastated. She won’t even go to the market she’s so afraid she might run in to someone.”
    “Oh, fuck me, Ted.” I’m getting riled and people are looking at me. I cup my hand over the mouthpiece. “We used to do shit like this all the time.”
    “Yeah, about a million years ago! And this isn’t the same thing at all.”
    “It’s exactly the same.”
    “No, Sara, you’re exactly the same—the rest of us have grown up.”
    “Fuck you, Ted.” I press the end button on my phone and turn it off. I order a double. Ted’s words swim through the vodka. I push my sunglasses onto my face but the tears stream down past the frames. The waitress approaches me and asks if I’m okay. “I just came from a funeral,” I say.
    “I’m so sorry,” she says and leaves me to drink in peace.
     
    People are leaving by the time I make it to Lila’s reception. I try to slink in unnoticed, but Esther waves and walks across the room to greet me. She takes both my hands in hers and I shrivel into myself. I must have forgotten the gloves at the bar and I still don’t have a sympathy card. Esther escorts me to the kitchen, where I load up a plate with deviled eggs and pieces of quartered tuna sandwiches on white bread. I wolf down the tuna first thinking that if I eat enough I may die of mercury poisoning. This is a serious concern according to Gen, who read an article about it or saw something on TV and once said I had a death wish after she watched me eat eight pieces of yellowtail sashimi and Gen’s one of the grown-ups so she would know these things. My eyes well again with tears. Esther pours me a scotch and steers me into the living room. I sit on the sofa across from a high-end entertainment center that seems out of place against the flowery wallpaper. There are three remotes sitting atop the television and I wonder if I could inconspicuously grab them and take them to the bathroom and empty out the batteries and swallow them and all their mercury goodness to speed up the process I’ve started with the tuna.
    Esther pats my knee. I’m crying again. “Lila had a lovely life, dear,” she says and offers me a monogrammed cloth handkerchief.
    I wipe my dripping nose. I dab at my eyes and mascara stains the white material. “Thanks.”
    I stare at the handkerchief balled up in my hand, unsure of where to put it or what to do. “You can keep it,” Esther says. “I have boxes of them.”
     
    I change my mind about the battery swallowing—it wouldn’t be fair to Esther to die in her bathroom on the day of her best friend’s funeral.
    “Now you just stay put, dear.” Esther pats my knee again. “I’ll get you another drink and just holler if you need anything else. Things will wind down soon and we’ll have a chance to talk.”
    I do as I’m told and as the guests leave I begin to notice the wonderland of the apartment. Much of the wall space is covered with framed black-and-white