As Autumn accelerated —
Bertie Bagley began buying blue balloons biweekly. Chauncey Clark couldn’t comprehend colors.
“Nonetheless, I have never seen more beautiful balloons,” Chauncey Clark chirped.
“Oh! I’ve bought them just for you — just for you,” Bertie Bagley babbled breathlessly. Darker days developed. Early evenings ensued. Finally, fortune flourished.
“I am blind to colors,” Chauncey Clark cried, “but, I’m not blind to love. Bertie: I love you!”
Bertie Bagley began bawling — and let go of the lip of the inflated-but-not-yet-knotted blue balloon she was pinching, which made the balloon whistle and fly upward and smack against the white, concrete ceiling before sputtering back lamely, listlessly to the tiled floor between the two of them.
“I love you, too, Chauncey,” Bertie Bagley blubbered. “I love you as much as I love buying blue balloons. Almost.”
Gods guffaw giddily. Humans hope heroically. Is irony inescapable?
“Bertie, I have some bad news,” Chauncey Clark commented. “The big blue balloon maker is going out of business.”
Bertie Bagley blinked. “How can this be?” Bertie Bagley boomed, “But what will I do?
“What will we do?” Chauncey Clark corrected.
Bertie Bagley buckled.
Judge judiciously and know kindness kindles kudos. Lovers love loving.
“Bertie,” Chauncey Clark charmed. “La vida es corta, y la muerte larga. And you are brazenly, beautifully bonkers for your blue balloons. It’s just one of the many things I most love about you.”
Bertie Bagley blew breath before beaming brightly. “So, our love will get us through this?”
“Absolutely.”
Many mates master matrimony, nearly never noticing opportunities or occasions for precious praise, passionate play, and persistent protection of their partners. Quell quaky questioning. Quiet qualms. Quickly quash quarrels.
“Bertie, my love,” Chauncey Clark carefully conveyed. “You’ve been hoarding the last of these beautiful blue balloons and now our home is bursting. Each room is packed, top to bottom with inflated blue balloons. I smell nothing but latex. I see nothing but blue. And all of the slowly leaking helium is making our voices squeak.”
Bertie Bagley boasted a blasé, bored bearing. “Yeah,” Bertie bleated. “Whatever.”
“But Bertie,” Chauncey pleaded. “We must do something.”
Routine, rinky-dink rows regularly ruin relationships.
Bertie didn’t budge. “These are the last of the blue balloons, baby. Best beware battle?” Silly, selfish squabbles soon sour sweetness, squander sympathy, stain sentiment. Sighs sound satisfactorily similar to surrender.
Chauncey sighed. There will be another season, he thought.
Bertie bristled.
Taught tension trailed time as the minutes tip-toed toward twilight.
Ultimatums? Bertie wondered. Ugly, unwelcome, unnecessary, and upsetting ultimatums?
Ugh … Unlike Chauncey. Unusual for Chauncey … Vodka —
“Vodka is the only way I’m getting to sleep tonight,” Bertie berated.
Why want what we want? Chauncey wondered. Why wish what we wish? Is wistful wandering a waste? … Whimsy. Wisdom … Xanax —
“Xanax is the only way I’m getting to sleep tonight,” Chauncey cantillated. “Alas.”
Chauncey Clark was still asleep when Bertie Bagley awoke with a mission. She dressed quietly, grabbed her purse and car keys, and dashed to the garage. Later, when Chauncey Clark awoke, he waded through seas of bobbing blue balloons in every room looking for Bertie. He called her name again and again before he spotted Bertie through a window partially blocked by blue balloons. He used his arms to sweep the blue balloons away.
Bertie Bagley was yonder, sprinting through the yard and up a grassy hillside behind their bungalow, yelping with a young person’s yearning and joy in the sunshine.
Bertie was flying a yellow kite, which was rising higher and higher as Bertie let go of more of the spooled string. Once Bertie reached the top of the hill, she began spinning in circles. The yellow kite was yar. She was a 3-point turbo bridle, sporting a stylized black-and-white Yin-Yang symbol at its center. She was a proud, sturdy kite who loved dancing in the winds. She pirouetted as she climbed, with a tail made from a long yarn of yesterdays.
“Yikes!” Chauncey yelled after finally unlatching and opening the window. “Bertie! She’s beautiful! You’re beautiful. But please be careful running on that hill.”
Bertie beamed. “Chauncey, it’s magical. It’s magnificent. I love my kite. Chauncey, it’s yellow! And, Chauncey, I love you.”
The yellow kite fluttered and flew higher.
“Yes,” Bertie yelled. “The human heart wants what it wants.”
“Yes,” Chauncey yelled. “Let our souls soar.”
After a moment more, Chauncey shouted again to Bertie. “What do you call her, my love?”
Bertie was looking up at the yellow kite and into the sunshine. “Let’s call her Zyzzyva.”
Michael Burke is the author of the short story collection, What You Don’t Know About Men, and the short plays, “Enemies, Foreign and Domestic,” “Wama-Wama Zing Bing” and “Let’s Spend Money.” His stories have been published in TriQuarterly, American Way (the American Airlines magazine), Private Arts and other journals. His plays have been performed in Chicago by Open Space Arts, Strawdog Theatre, and OverBored Productions. He posts book reviews, writing tips and social commentary at www.ChicagoWriter.blogspot.com. Michael Burke lives in Chicago with his husband, magician Robert Charles.
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