Death, and Other Things You Can’t Afford by Kendra Pintor

You make a list of the things you can’t afford: name brand anything, soda, bar soap, you get all your cleaning products at the Dollar Tree—which only recently started pricing products at $1.25. Still, you tell your mother-in-law that, really, there is no difference between Glass Plus and Windex. This is easier than trying to explain that, really, there is no difference between loving a man, or a woman. You continue the list of things you can’t afford: a full tank of gas, the good paper towels, coming out. Everything is so expensive these days; water, heat, authenticity. It’ll cost you, either way. To live with, or without. Someone always pays. You pace the apartment and take note of all the things you could sell if it ever came to that. The couch, the cat tower, the memory of your first kiss, buried like a seed so deep it grew roots like teeth, sharp enough to bite so you never get too close, though you’re sure someone would pay to see it if you were to wrest it from your brain-soil and put it on display; a museum of mistakes, the moment you turned away and she asked what’s wrong? You jot these notes down, accounting for the things you could probably live without. Hazelnut spread, sex, a washer and dryer in-unit, your father, church. These are not necessary to survive, and you should know. You’ve been making ends meet your whole life. Cupboards full of pudding cups gathered up in your arms to eat in secret, in the bathroom, the only room in the house with a door that locked, the same place she kissed you because back then it was the only room in the house with a door that locked. For the rest of your life, you returned to that bathroom again and again; to eat, to explore, to escape. Anyone could walk into a closet, but the bathroom was safe. You write down the things you can’t live without; air. Also, books, therapy, laughter, your husband. You start to total your monthly expenses; electricity, car insurance, cat food, re-playing the way your mother said sick when you asked her what being gay meant, phone bill, student loans, rent. It’s important to get your finances under control. It helps to make a budget, attend a seminar, speak with an advisor, get your questions answered for free. Is bankruptcy hereditary? Is God real? Is hell more of a dry heat? She’s married—a mother, too. Rain drops stain your notepad, wet the ink, mixing bullet points with numbers. It’s all ruined. But you know what to do. Rip out the page and try again tomorrow. 

Kendra Pintor is an emerging author of speculative horror from Southern California. Her story “THE SLUAGH” is featured in the Best Small Fictions 2023 anthology and is a Best American Science Fiction/Fantasy 2023 nominee. Kendra is also a graduate of the 2022 UMass Amherst Juniper Summer Writing Institute. 

28 June 2024