Fairy Tales

After surviving an early morning swat in the face from his wooden spoon wielding grandmother; and cutting through the vines of bumper to bumper turnpike traffic in his 1992 Elantra; and the first three hours of his shift mopping the hospital floors, Erich Calder stumbled upon her: Rose.  

He knew she was a royal at first sight.  There were signs, the physical signs, and Erich was keenly aware of each one of them.  The jaw line had to be strong and dominating.  The jaw line has to say, "I know my place in this world," to anyone who is fortunate enough to encounter it.  The nose had to be serious and snooty.  It had to be a nose worthy of looking down, worth turning up.  Just as important were the lips.  Pouty lips.  Give me more lips.  I would never eat anything cheap lips.  If a princess is to have anything, it is the right jaw, nose, and lips.  Without the crown, it was the only way to know for sure.  And Erich, laying his mop at her feet, knew for sure.

The princess slept on a gurney.  They all did.  He kissed her soft and sweet but she did not stir.  He kissed her again and again.  It wasn't supposed to work like this.  We all know the rules.  A princess tries sleeping on a pea?  It just won't work.  A princess kisses a frog?  The frog will turn into a prince.  And if prince kisses a sleeping princess, she wakes up and they live the lives they were meant to live, god damn it.  They don't push mops.  They don't sit in traffic.  They love each other and value each other's opinions, however odd or jaded or sublime.  They don't laugh or swat spoons in each other's fucking faces.  When one needs a sword, the other tosses it over and together they slay the dragon.  They walk the plank.  They toe the line.  With every kiss Erich gave Rose she did not stir causing him to shouted, "Why the hell is everything around here broken?"

He lifted her gown.  He unzipped his Dickies.  It was supposed to work.