Adam is Dead
One headline on the last page surprised her.
Eve sat on the front porch with her Saturday-morning coffee and vape, a combination that’s helped her shit for the past six thousand years. It was the hottest day of the year. There were parakeets chirping and bumblebees in the mountain ash. The neighbors across the street were finally taking down their Christmas lights. It was July. The husband flocked around with the spool in the yard like a dog in rut. Eve unfurled the paper and flipped to the obituaries, her favorite part. One headline on the last page surprised her. Adam Is Dead. She hardly recognized him in the photo. His skin was red and leathery and burnt. He was on a beach somewhere wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt with a panda on the breast pocket. A woman half his age was attached to his hip. She had a butterfly tattoo on her chest. For a moment, Eve felt compelled to cry. But before any tears came, her bowels stirred and she shot straight up. There was shit to do. The grandkids never cleaned up the dicks they drew on the driveway. She’d make them do it after cereal. The baby’s got a birthday party later at the park. There’s a crock of chili to make and addictions to curb. And pickleball starts at nine.
Oliver Cubillos is a writer and filmmaker from Los Angeles, California. He holds a BFA in Media Arts Production with a minor in literature from Emerson College. His work is published or forthcoming in Heavy Feather Review, BULL Magazine, Free Flash Fiction, and Bright Flash Literary Review.
