This week's word is:
2a (1) : a grassed enclosure for bowling or skittles
(2) : a hardwood lane for bowling; also : a room or building housing a group of such lanes
b : the space on each side of a tennis doubles court between the sideline and the service sidelinec : an area in a baseball outfield between two outfielders when they are in normal positions
3: a narrow street; especially : a thoroughfare through the middle of a block giving access to the rear of lots or buildings
- Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
- You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
- The word itself needs to be included in your response.
- You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
- Your post must include a link back to Trifecta.
- Please submit your post's permalink, not the main page of your blog. For example: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2012/03/trifextra-week-eight.html not http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/.
- You may only submit one post per blog per challenge.
She was dropped off with the hostess again as her dad began his shift waiting tables at the Chinese restaurant. The nice lady wearing the casual qi pao took her to the back of the restaurant that housed an unused corner bar area next to a back door that led to the alley. The door was kept open for ventilation, and the screen door behind it intermittently invited in the stench of rotting foods souring in the dumpsters outside.
She liked to play behind the bar counter, on the floor. The walls that surrounded her small body were not dirty, unkempt surfaces, but strong castle walls that sheltered the princess' body she was in. She’d make up games to play in solitude to pass the time. She’d trace with the tip of her fingers the visible lines on the walls made by accidental splashes and drips of beverages that were aged by time and neglect. Her thin, straw-like fingers with a similar shade of grime under the nails sought to feel the uneven tracks made by the trails of those sticky streaks. She pretended that her fingers were helping a little helpless bug find its way home.
She didn’t know that her father was too young to be a parent; she didn’t know that his mistakes included her, and that they weighed heavily like the trays of dishes that he palmed above his shoulder. She just knew that she belonged to him, and she went wherever he went and ate whatever he ate.
He’d bring her Shirley Temples. That sweet, fizzy, liquid that made her feel even more princess-y. The maraschino cherry on top was the best part. And she could have as many glasses as she wanted, so long as she stayed behind her castle walls.
She was no longer scared or lonely or hungry. She just waited for her Shirley Temples.
To this day, every time I see a child behind the counter or in the kitchen of a restaurant, my heart aches a little, and then I taste the sweetness of a Shirley Temple on my tongue.