Georgia Everlasting
It was mid-August, and the air was almost unbreathable. It was thick, hot, and muggy; enough to make any sane human being sluggish and lethargic. The cracked thermometer on the wall read 97 degrees; the weatherman mumbled sleepily that the humidity made it feel like 105 degrees.
Orangine, Georgia was a town that did not succumb to the cruelty of the state's extreme heat. In the center of town, construction on the rebricking of the old clock tower clipped along steadily, its pace more rapid than that of a child accelerating into a cold pool on a day like today. The unairconditioned grocery stores stayed wide open, with windows and doors all askew. Mothers bustled up and down the isles, buying meat, vegetables, and pre-made mashed potatoes that came in a powder form. It was the way of the 50's; ease and accessibility was all that counted. The women who shopped the stores were the steely type; no possible weather condition could keep them from making a fresh, homemade, prepackaged dinner for their families of scarily even numbers.
As the clock struck 5:30pm precisely, as always, Mr. Davenport thrust open the front door of his two-story home (he was very proud to be the only house on the street with two floors), and as usual, bellowed, "Honey, I'm home!" His wife, as usual, did not respond. This was because she could not hear him over the edgy rockabilly music that she played on the small radio in the kitchen. She was the only woman who played while she cooked; as such, the neighboring women (and men and children) gawked, open mouthed, or threw looks of disgust or confusion as they walked by the Davenport's windows. Mr. Davenport thought that the looks were those of jealousy of his fine and dandy two story home, and inwardly revelled in the stares which he thought were given for his unbounding wealth and perfect, double-level house.
Jane Davenport despised Orangine, Georgia. She hated her two-story house (the only one on the block) , hated her "job" as a housewife, and more than anything, she hated her husband, Paul Davenport and his insistence to be as basic as possible. She was 20 years old, for God's sake! There had to be more to life than folding, ironing, and swapping recipes with Becky Stevens from down the street. Becky always had recipes for desserts with nuts in them, and always tried to get Jane to eat them, seemingly forgetting every time that Jane was anaphylactically allergic to any kind of nut. Or perhaps Becky was trying to murder her so that she could get remarried to Paul. If that was the case, then it was fine by Jane. She didn't want to die, but also for all she cared, Becky could have Paul. They were fucking already, Jane knew this much. Good for them, she thought. At least one person in the marriage from each pair was getting some. Jane had no interest in sleeping with her husband. As much as she enjoyed the screaming, hollering, ugly, red-faced urchin that she currently bounced on her hip with one arm while stirring a pot of spaghetti with the other, she was in no mood for having to take care of two freaks. She'd rather freeze in the exotic beauty of Alaska. Far, Far away from Orangine. But Jane had been forced into this life, this everlasting, sweltering, miserable, tiny, nothingness of an existence.