(Editor note–We like to welcome Yash to the Springs. He holds the record for most stories published in one year at what I like to think of as , if not sister, but our cousin publication of Literally Stories UK. One read will tell you why he is so successful–Leila)

The to-do list stares at me, letters running across the page, like railroad tracks of responsibility.

Pick up sisters’ favorite wines. Nan likes Sauvignon Blanc. Colette worships Merlot; Nan is not drinking any fucking Merlot (sorry, Paul Giamatti, I know I plagiarized Sideways, but original words are stuck in my throat).

Pick up some Gran Marnier for me because I fucking need something impractical and sweet.

Pick up six ribeye steaks at CheapGoods a day or two before Christmas, since Anastasia insists that they mark the prices down.

Prepare for two meals. One with Mom, another with Dad, with sisters present at both, even though I tried to explain efficiency, and this novel I’m trying to finish the edits on—due before New Year’s. But Mom calls Dad a Rasputin wannabe, a reactionary fucker (while she says she loves me). Dad calls Mom an idealist, too focused on her formulaic thrillers, too liberal (and says I need to be more assertive, but he loves me).

Pick proper attire. Nan thinks I look becoming in lavender; Colette thinks indigo makes me exude class. Dad despises lavender, Mom loves black. Anastasia thinks I look hot in Polo.

Also contact the client about aforementioned book and tease out the possibility of completion a week after New Year’s.

The letters zigzag even more. I rub my eyes. I love my family, but I just need a moment. A moment without “I need” or “I want.” I just want to watch Larry David invite a sex offender to a Passover seder or the Dude saying “fuck it.” I want to make love to Anastasia to the swells of Waltz of the Flowers, with our room festooned with red, blue, and green lights flickering in time to elegant strings. I want to see everyone one at a time, in a coffee shop, at a movie, not as a miasma of husky and baritone and gravelly voices all under these avocado-colored walls.

I crumple the list. Step outside. Stare at the expanse of pink and purple dusk falling, at the naked tree branches shifting. Stare at the houses up and down the block, their butter-colored lamps all coming on, silhouettes moving through windows with precision and confidence. Press my hands to my cheeks, open my mouth. Scream. Shriek. All of the above.

Uncrumple the list. Stare at it again; it has tears.

Yashar Seyedbagheri

(Image by DWB)