Afterlife
She slots 50 dollars into the charity jar behind the cash register and silently bids her thanks for the alimony.
by Ada Pelonia
She doesn’t cry after dying like you expect her to. She speeds past the village gate, driving to the nearest fast-food chain to grab a cheeseburger, large fries, and Coke. She watches a crew member tick off the order list, biding her time at the drive-thru without any sense of haste—a revolt against the bogged-down rush of fright by the kitchen sink when it’s ten past eight and she’s on bended knees praying for frozen meat to thaw faster. She slots 50 dollars into the charity jar behind the cash register and silently bids her thanks for the alimony. She takes off down leaden streets and kneels before moist earth at a memorial park, rummaging through her insides to bury the appendage that nursed bruised egos and weaponized incompetence on a daily basis. She sits silently for the first time in years, lays the takeout on fresh turfgrass, and relishes the absence of guilt jutting out her midriff.
Ada Pelonia (she/her) is a journalism graduate of the University of Santo Tomas. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Eunoia Review, and Gone Lawn, among others. She has been nominated for Best Microfiction 2021. Find her at adapelonia.weebly.com or on Instagram @_adawrites.
