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Candy Ring Goodbyes

by Moa Lundholm

The flight to Madeira leaves in 1h 20 minutes. Savannah peeks out the living room window and notices the taxi arriving. Honk. It’s 1h 19 minutes left until departure. Darn it. She can’t seem to find the lollipop ring that her dad had given her. The nine year old version of herself had cherished it as a souvenir, for the last time her dad had separated from his absinthe bottle, his chérie, for a couple of hours. A day when chuckles had painted their cheeks in blush and conversations never rose above the decibel limit for young ears. 

Savannah tornadoes through her studio apartment, leaving a wreckage of emptied drawers in a trail behind her. Chanel, Gucci and Versace commingle with monochrome photographs of her college friends, the court case she has not even begun to review, and flaming hot Cheetos in crumbles on the floor. You know where you freaking put it! She screams at herself, pumping insides of dressers and wardrobes into the air, like a prepubescent boy blasting a nerf bazooka towards the sky. 

Honk. She glances at her wrist. Gosh, 18 minutes. The cab driver’s eyes fume with smoke, similar to her dad’s whiskey orbs on a Wednesday afternoon. At least, her Balenciaga black-and- white dogtooth suit fits like a glove, sprinkling her with an aura of a female Hollywood mogul. A Rolex, 18k gold, accentuates her arm. Not a single strand of hair escapes her slicked back ponytail and the wings of thick eyeliner would make beauty gurus sigh in relief. 

Honks come at her with the same frequency as her dad’s emails used to reach her inbox, reminding her that she never showed up in New York, or London, or Bangkok, or Stockholm and not that time in the Swiss Alps either. Honk. Shoot. 17 minutes. She storms through jackets, picture frames and shoe boxes. Honk. 16. Fudge. The taxi driver revs the engine and grips the wheel, white- knuckled. Knuckles never evoke good memories, only tequila breaths punching tiny limbs. 

Honk. 15. In a pit in her wardrobe, cramped with 300 pairs of high heels, the candy ring reveals itself. It’s a blue diamond of crystallized sugar that sits on top of a plastic band. Savannah clasps it and places it in the breast pocket of her tweed jacket. Tears well up in the corner of her eyes as she locks the apartment door and sprints towards the taxi. The LV print of her suitcase glimmers in the sheen of street lights. 

Her puddled state softens the tight facial lines of the cab driver. The airport, please, she stutters, wiping streaming tears off her face. Now, she will reminisce about embraces, soft like a teddy bear’s, and candied apple aromas when they lower his casket into the grave. Maybe, she could even release the chokehold of resentment with every shovelful of Spanish soil? She kisses the sugar ring and slides her finger through it.

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