Mother. A tan Ann-Margret. Restless bird a-flutter in a concrete box. Pink and grey terrazzo hallways escape, slip slide shiny with Johnson Floor Wax. In the spring, Ann-Margret will chip-chip-chip away the yellowed film. On hands and knees, patellas bony against the tough-as-nails shine, a sleeve of razor blades stuffed deep in the pocket of her denim cut-offs. Extras, for the scraper, when the blade dulls. The trick is to tuck the razor edge directly under the old wax and not scratch the terrazzo. Smooth, like a shave. Elvis will hound dog from the front room stereo and a whole lotta of tuckin’ and chippin’ will go on. She will pull long strips of what once was crystal clear and decide to buy her husband an electric razor for Christmas.
Sheree Shatsky writes wild words. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals, most recently Ghost Parachute, BLACKCACKLE at Entropy, Tiny Molecules, The Wild Hunt and Ellipsis Zine with work forthcoming at little somethings press and The Dead Mule. Read more of her work at shereeshatsky.com Find her on Twitter @talktomememe.