I’m thirty-one years old and I don’t think I’ve outgrown my Barbies.
I’m pretty sure if I had them here at my house, I’d set up a house for Sabrina under the desk in my office. I’d park her aqua-colored ’57 Chevy next to it. She’d leave her clothes all over the floor and her ex-husband Dennis would come over unannounced and uninvited. They’d shout at each other until the neighbors called the police. The police would arrive (probably in a red Mustang; maybe they were undercover when they got the call) and complain that they were tired of responding to these kind of calls to Sabrina’s house. They know Sabrina because she’s a judge and they know Dennis because he is a prosecutor. They know Sabrina and Dennis shouldn’t be divorced, that only pride and stubbornness are keeping them apart.
After the police make Dennis leave, he’d come back to apologize. By then, Sabrina would have taken a long bath in her giant purple hottub (she has a hard job and needs to unwind), and she’d be in a better mood. She’d be wearing that sheer robe, the one she once wore with nothing underneath and caused a stir on the street outside her house. Tonight she’d be wearing something under the robe. She does learn from her mistakes sometimes.
Sabrina would accept Dennis’s apology and they’d hug. Dennis has good arms for hugging. They’d share a meal, maybe a glass of wine in those blue tumblers because Sabrina doesn’t have any wine glasses. She also doesn’t have a dining table so they’d eat on her white wicker sofa with the purple floral cushion. Maybe Sabrina would get suddenly uncomfortable with their closeness and sit instead in the blue dentist chair she pretends is a recliner.
Dennis would kiss Sabrina before he left to return to his own house, just across my office, under a chair or on a bookshelf. Sabrina would sigh. She knows she can’t go down that road again.
My mom is always asking me to take my Barbies. She doesn’t know what it would really entail.