Mrs. Ciara Rodriguez stood naked in front of the mirror, as people sometimes do on big days and milestone events, taking inventory of where she was in her life, and where she’d like to be after the big milestone has passed.
Her “milestone” today was the eighteenth birthday of her son, Esteban, or Steve as everyone called him, August 12th. She quickly glanced at her hair, held up in a messy bun with an old clasp, before she unclasped it and let the wavy, black mane drop down to her shoulders.
Despite feeling every bit the forty-year-old, the one thing she felt was still young and beautiful about her was that thick, healthy head of hair, which managed to look attractive in pretty much every context, length, and style; sometimes she’d cut it short in a bob cut, then let it grow out to the middle of her back, then use curlers non-stop to make it springy and wavy, then make it crazy with a thousand small locks, dyed copper-blonde… it went on as the years went by, and she’d always get compliments and dirty looks no matter what she did.
This week her hair was “recovering”, so it was normal, plain, shoulder-length, black and shiny, even when dirty like right now, the locks falling flat as she kept picking them up, leaving a slightly oily residue on her fingers as she ran them through, checking for split hairs and signs of white.
Unlike her hair, her face was beginning to show the signs of age, at least to her. Her eyelids, perched under impeccably groomed, thin eyebrows which thickened inwards, were beginning to droop a bit, and without heavy makeup and fake eyelashes, made it seem like she was constantly tired. The small dark bags under her eyes, the bane of her existence, exacerbated this further, and she used huge volumes of concealer to make them disappear; the magazines on her nightstand had at least one article each about bag removal surgeries, risks, success stories, and doctors’ addresses.
Her nose and cheekbones were “retouched” a little bit around the time she gave birth to Steve, when fitness and surgery became her escape from the postpartum depression that hit her hard. She’d spend days just eating, vomiting, exercising, going to the gym every chance she’d get, sometimes twice or even three times a day, until she expulsed every trace of the black-and-blue feeling that suddenly grew inside of her once she delivered her beautiful baby boy.
The nose was narrow, long and straight, ending in a perfectly shaped, triangular tip with narrow nostrils which could still flare and open up when she got really angry; a far cry from her earlier aquiline feature, slightly crooked from a bicycle accident when she was eight. Her cheekbones needed just a little padding to make them pop splendidly, and she’d use lots of blush to further enhance this effect.
She recently developed smile lines and wrinkles around her lips, which she found annoying, but she also thought they gave her a matronly, respectful air, which she enjoyed. Her face was normally round, with thick cheeks, slightly flat chin, and lush, meaty lips, so the smile lines helped direct attention away from all the less-than-flattering features, creating a sort of pseudo-trapeze between her cheekbones and her lips, hugged from both sides by her spectacular hair.
The rest of her body held up as well as her face did, considering she was forty. She was always heavy set and not particularly tall, and it showed more in the last few years, her hips getting rounder and wider, her thighs bigger, annoyingly rubbing together at all times, and her arms flabbier and more loose. She gently touched the stretch marks on the lower part of her belly, the first “gift” her baby boy gave her, and more on the top of her breasts, which were beginning to sag, but were still supple, squishy, large, and dominant on her upper body, the nipples big and attractive in the middle of large, dark brown areolas.
She twirled once, giving her big, firm, meaty behind a quick slap as she laughed at the mirror, before grabbing her phone on the way to the bathroom, where she peed, brushed her teeth, and took a long shower, carefully applying body milk and deodorant after she dried herself off.
“Mom can we have a big breakfast pls,” a message blinked on her phone’s screen as she started getting dressed, pulling up a pair of black cotton boxer briefs.
“Sure thing boo want smt special?” she responded, her long fingernails quietly clacking on the glass.
“Toast, eggs, ham, oj… the more, the better love ya xx” came the response, and she sent love back, pondering the supplies in the fridge as she put a plain beige bra on.
“Definitely no oj and eggs, so… off to the market I guess” she sighed, talking to herself.
Steve recently won a basketball scholarship to one of the less prestigious Ivy League colleges up state, and for the past four months basketball was pretty much his life. He attended at least two practices each day, one with a coach the college sent to keep track of his progress, and another one of his own where he ran, swam or went to the gym, building up his physique.
He got up early that morning to go swimming, and left well before 6 AM. He’d normally get nauseous if he ate before practice, so they ate breakfast together after he was back, enjoying the mother-son time it provided in their usually busy schedules.
Ciara was going to do a supply run anyways to prep for the birthday dinner she was putting together that evening, but she only wanted to hit the big store in the suburbs, and now with Steve wanting a big breakfast, she’d also have to drive back to town and hit the local farmer’s market for some fresh eggs and oranges (there was no way her varsity athlete was drinking any of that artificially sweetened crap).
Lost in thought of recipes and ingredients, she absentmindedly put on a cozy yellow summer dress, which complemented her golden-brown skin perfectly, and before she knew it, she was in her car, not remembering how she got in, started it, or pulled out of her driveway. “Ya gettin’ old, puta,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her old blue Volkswagen Bora was loudly bobbing down the highway, stereo blasting at close to full volume, and she felt good about herself, enjoying the cool air coming from the A/C, singing all the choruses.
As it was right about the beginning of the workday, she found parking easily, slotting in her car close to the entrance, and then pulling a shopping cart from the pen, strolling through the isles, going through the recipe on her phone and mentally ticking off the ingredients. Finally confirming she got everything (after triple-checking), she paid up and went outside carrying two big paper bags full of groceries, quietly cussing at Steve for not being there to help her.
Her next stop was the farmer’s market, a sprawling line of tents and counters taking up most of the main alleys of the aptly named Central Park, a public area right in the middle of town. The market was normally around from Memorial Day to Labor Day, and it was the centerpiece of the town’s entire year, bringing in traffic, tourists, business and, occasionally, trouble.
Finding parking was, understandably, impossible nearby, so she parked about two blocks out, and walked a few hundred yards, drawing looks and smiles from the people she met along the way; the yellow dress fit her well, and she was attractive. Walking through the park made her feel excited and the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables perked her up, so she smiled and chirped hello’s left and right, stopping to chit-chat with friends and acquaintances running errands.
She found eggs quickly, sold by famer Jordan, whose counter was about halfway down a side alley, looking very rustic with all the bird droppings and straw covering the cardboard eggshells. She bought a dozen, and even got the farmer to clean them up for her, as he swore they were fresh and hatched that very morning.
Oranges, however, were nowhere to be found; she could distinctly remember seeing at least four stalls selling them when she was in the market just a few days ago, but on that day, despite many fruit stalls and tents, not a single orange was available. Even the vendors were confused as they, too, could distinctly remember packing them in before they left for the market; perhaps they all got sold, or somebody was making a really large quantity of juice, or they just turned bad and got thrown out with other junk… either way, she walked and walked, mostly in circles, but to no avail.
“‘scuse me, lady?” she could hear a quiet croak coming from behind the bench she sat on to rest, trying to think about where she could get fresh fruit. She couldn’t accept not fulfilling Steve’s wish on his birthday…
“Huh?” she threw back absentmindedly, quickly turning her head to spot a shriveled old woman standing next to the bench.
“Oh, sorry… did you need something?” Ciara recoiled, as the woman was bent at the waist, using a small metal cane to hold herself up so her head wouldn’t touch the floor, one arm folded back as she gently massaged her aching left hip.
“No, but I heard you needed something… oranges?” the woman spoke in a pained, jarring tone, slowly picking her words as she completed her sentence.
“Yeah, tha’s right. Got any?” Ciara smiled, uncrossing her legs and turning more towards the old woman, ready to stand up.
“Follow me,” the old woman said, turning around slowly. Slightly creeped out, but reassured as it was daytime, Ciara slowly started after the figure in front of her, making their way around the last of the counters in the same side alley where farmer Jordan was, to reveal a small, disheveled pavilion, brownish-green in color, easy to miss as it was almost the same color as the grass and the trees behind it.
“Wait here, please,” croaked the old woman as she made her way inside. Ciara frowned and checked the time, not having patience to deal with the lady any longer, but she lingered on, hoping it was actual fresh oranges she was waiting for, and not some demented trick the hag was trying to pull.
A few minutes later, the old lady rolled a mesh produce bag full of big orange fruit, feebly kicking it with her frail foot, while she carried a paper bag with another, smaller load, in her free hand, still holding herself up with the cane in the other.
“There you go, love, fresh as they can be. The ones in the bag here are two bucks a pound, there’s about two and a half pounds there, and the ones I’m rolling are free as I’ve overstocked and they are going to go bad soon. There’s about five pounds there, give or take. Good?” The old lady smiled and nodded, slowly finishing her sales pitch, smoothing over her grey woolen skirt after she beckoned Ciara to take the oranges from her hand, then fixing the green cotton t-shirt which hiked up a little bit from all the exertion she put herself through.
“That’s a lot of oranges, grandma – but I’ll take them! Here’s five bucks for the load here, and I’ll just take that there, too. Thanks so much, you saved my life!” Ciara beamed a smile at her as she paid up, then picked up all the oranges and waved, looking to move away from the weird tent and the kooky old lady as soon as she could. Warmth and excitement came back to her once she hit the main alley of the park again, and after a quick hike back, she made it to her car, repeating the same routine of driving fast, blasting music, and enjoying the cool air as she completed the circle around town back to their house in suburbia.
A stout three-bedroom, single-story house with an adjoining garage and a nice driveway, picked for them by her late husband Karl, their home felt huge once it was just the two of them living there. She thought of moving to a smaller place downtown, but she could never make herself do it, especially once Steve started making friends and causing mayhem in the neighborhood.
Past the white picket fence and the impeccable lawn (cared for by Steve once a week), there were three ways one could get into the house. Ciara always found it funny how the main hallways sort of looked like a police t-baton, considering her late husband was a police officer, but it provided perfect access to every entrance and room in the house.
The main, front door were large and rustic, painted dark brown to complement the dark brown frames of the windows and the dim walnut color of the front porch bannister, with three small windows moving diagonally down towards the doorknob from the top left corner; a perfect mid-century look they were going for when they first set up the place.
Other than the front door, one could get in through the back door, a much more humble half-glass portal in the same color as the front, but more flimsy and clearly not meant to be used as much. The backyard was about a quarter of an acre large, rectangular, and surrounded by a tall wooden fence, with a small toolshed in the back corner, and basically lots of empty space for a long-desired pool which never materialized. Steve still mowed it once a week, like he did the front, so it was fairly well-kept and green, with no signs of the usual messy, patchy chaos that went with unused backyards.
The third, and most-used entrance was through the garage, where one would need to climb three concrete steps up to a small landing, and then enter the “T” of the baton-shaped hallway.
This is where Ciara came in, carrying as much as she could in her arms, loudly shutting the door with her bare foot, her sandals slipping off as she made her way up the small steps towards the house. To her left, right next to the front door, was a small pedestal holding the key bowl, and she awkwardly dropped her keys in, trying to balance the heavy shopping bags while leaning down slightly.
Across from the garage entrance was the storage room, where they kept most of their groceries and supplies, and that’s where Ciara shuffled to next, hitting the light switch with her elbow. To the left and to the right of here were two massive hardwood shelves spanning from floor to ceiling, and she dropped the bags in between them, finding space for the stuff she bought earlier, sorting everything nicely so she could finding it more easily later, when she needed it.
Once she was done, she came back to pick up the oranges, and those she carried straight to the kitchen, which could be accessed either through the storage room, where another set of doors were straight across from the ones you’d use to get in from the hallway, or through the main lounge, which was the second room on the left from the front. Ciara used the storage room access, and found herself in the narrow kitchen space, a window sending in light from the left (the front of the house), and another window allowing light from above the sink, which was slightly off-center to the right of the storage room access door.
The usual kitchen cupboards, stove and dishwasher, as well as a number of kitchen appliances, all either walnut or black, lined up against the wall around the sink, while the large, double-door fridge was to the left of the storage access, covering the space between the door and the window almost perfectly.
Opening the fridge, Ciara deposited the eggs and the oranges inside, then turned to take a breather in the living room, taking her dress off and putting her feet up as she started scrolling through her socials.
Despite being fairly popular for the majority of her life, there were almost no significant people in her life other than her family and her now dead husband, and Steve, of course, once he came into her world.
She met her husband early on in high school and they started dating, tying the knot after he graduated from the state trooper training academy, and then moving around as he went through field training, finally joining the highway patrol. His $80,000 per year was more than enough for them to get started, and they found their home quickly, Ciara settling into the homemaker role as her husband went out and about patrolling the highways.
Soon enough, Steve came into their lives, and things looked like a classic happily ever after… which lasted for about five years. Karl was killed by some criminals he’d pulled over on the highway by pure chance, discovering a massive load of meth in their RV, which blew up with him in it once the shooting started.
That same year, Ciara’s father died, and she barely pulled through, crying herself to sleep every night and waking up in tears every morning for months. Luckily, she found an entry-level job at a local salon and the girls there helped prop her up, visiting her, offering advice, helping with Steve, and she made it.
Ten years later, she owned the salon, selling Karl’s bike and other possessions of his to scrounge up enough money for a down payment, then taking a mortgage out on the house to pay off the rest. Three more years after that, that is to say, in the present day, all of that has been paid off, and she could take it easy, content that her hustling days are behind her.
Focusing on Steve and her business took their toll on her social life though, and other than the girls at the salon, she had very few actual…