Flash Fiction: "Microwave" by Sherrie Flick

She put the dog in the microwave for 22 seconds. Or she dreamed she put the dog in the microwave for 22 seconds. The dog, nonetheless, spun on the little plate and howled mercilessly for 10 seconds and then lay down and spun silently for the last part. Susan didn’t know which was worse—the howling or the silence. And she doesn’t know why she put the dog in the microwave, as instructed. It seemed important at the time though. Whether Susan dreamed it or not seemed irrelevant, because it seemed she should be able to make ethical decisions even while dreaming.

 

It was important to put the dog in the microwave, part of a process that helped the dog, but she knew it wasn’t true even as she pushed the button. Was that her mother’s microwave? The one mounted above the stove? The dog didn’t like heights either so that made it awful in a two-fold way.

 

The dog, backlit, spun like a carnival ride. The howling was like mourning, like crying for real.

 

She woke before she could open the microwave door—pressing the thick plastic button so the door would pop free to expose her smoking puppy. She awoke and her real dog—a small Yorkshire terrier that would, in fact, fit into a microwave with little problem, was sleeping, curled up beside her. His back nestled against her own—trusting, in love. A little dog lover, sleeping but waking as soon as she did, ready for the day. Tail wagging. Happy, really.

 

The dog would’ve smoked and then, stood up. Better? Perhaps he would’ve been improved in the dream. Was it a means to get rid of fleas? Was that the idea?

 

Susan pet the dog who rolled on his back, exposing his belly with a white tuft of hair. Crazy happy. Crazy in love. The dog would lie like that for a very long time as she lightly stroked his hair, curls sprouting along his tiny feet.

 

Susan knew she needed to stop this kind of dreaming. Damning dreams, night after night. She pulled her robe closer and descended the creaking stairs, her feet tender from yesterday’s hike. Her hip joints reluctant to move again so soon. The dog scampered ahead of her, sure of the routine. Susan opened the door to a bright fall day. Breezes and the windchimes tinkling. The dog raced into the yard while she watched, admiringly. He was a handsome dog, a good dog nearly all the time. Except around babies where he would yap and nip with jealousy and Susan would scream at him, embarrassing herself and her friends.

 

The dog scampered back inside without incident, and Susan got to work in the kitchen: espresso, newspaper, granola with milk and bananas. Nothing seemed amiss except for that lingering idea of the dog spinning slowly on the glass plate, the interior of the oven smelling of tomato sauce, of reheated pizza.

 

Susan had separated from Peter a month before. She’d asked him late at night as they lay side by side in bed, the dog stretched between them as a buffer. She’d asked him nicely, had practiced, actually into a mirror beforehand. Even though his eyes had been closed for the delivery, she’d read somewhere, though, that facial expressions affect inflection.

 

She’d told him she needed time, and it was true. She needed to be alone. Peter seemed exhausted when he agreed to it, like what next. That was his position right now on the world: What next? He just took it, like a casual pass of the ball, and trotted out and moved in with his friend, Billy.

 

Alone, Susan walked the house looking at their things. All the things they’d acquired over the years. Rocks from hikes and books—so many books about nature and gardening and literature old and new. There were the lace curtains she’d insisted upon. Soon, it seemed like her house; she understood this. It had always been her house, and Peter had just lived in it. He could walk away that easily, start anew. Whatever she wanted, really, he was okay with that. But that was exactly what she didn’t want. She wanted someone to fight for her. And why, she wondered didn’t the dog fight? When she’d set it into the microwave, it had sat primly, happy, its tongue partway out, smiling like dogs do. Then she’d pressed the button—and only when it couldn’t be helped (Why couldn’t it be helped? She could’ve pressed the big black button earlier, yes?) did it howl and give up.

 

Susan wanted a different world. It’s true. She wanted to have the dog in her arms, to hear the request, to shake her head no. To walk out, away, into a sunset.

Sherrie Flick is the author of the flash fiction chapbook I Call This Flirting (Flume) and the novel Reconsidering Happiness (Bison Books). She lives in Pittsburgh, where she writes and teaches and edits and gardens and cooks.