The Things She Liked (Short Fiction)

 The Things She Liked*

She liked writing with different colored ink. Purple. Olive green. Hot pink. But not like teenagers, no. Not like adolescents who matched their moods to gel pens. Not like tweens, who doodled in fuzzy, sequined journals, changing their last names to match their crush’s or drawing hearts over ‘I’s. 

She liked colored ink because of the possibilities. Recipes were more exotic when copied in Teal, even the ones with ingredients found in the soup aisle. Bad news was easier to accept in blue ink, after all. Somber, but less final than black. No one liked red ink, but its power was intoxicating. She loved the way it demanded attention. At work, she used it every day. But no one ever saw her red ink. She demanded the attention of no one. 

She liked the early digital alarm clocks. The boxy ones with built-in hidey-holes where you could stash treasures. Money, fine jewelry, a forbidden piece of dark chocolate. She didn’t have any treasures, though. She packed them with two AAs or one 9-volt, depending on the model, of course. She loved that you could change the numbers independently. The minute and hour buttons up, down. Up, down. Up, down. She loved their wood paneling and sharp angles and Jetson aesthetic. Just like a control panel to another time-space dimension.

She liked analog alarm clocks, too. Their round faces with spindly legs and ornamental tops. She loved watching the secondhand move, dripping away time in bite-sized increments. Like the licks of buttercream she used to swipe from Gran’s cakes. Analog alarm clocks tasted like a time-capsule and watching them was as delicious as not getting caught.

She only wore pocketless slacks. They were increasingly difficult to find these days, pocketless slacks. Even wedding dresses had secret pockets now. She hadn’t worn jeans in years; they were too stressful with their stiff fabric and double-layered, front-facing pockets. Derrière pockets weren’t nearly as bad, but they still bothered her. She’d initially been against the use of tights as anything other than hosiery. But now her wardrobe exploded with brightly printed tights and their color-coordinating tops. No pockets. No tags. No anxiety. And Jeggings! There was such smooth, supple denim in jeggings. And she liked to think that if paired with an appropriate top and sensible heels, that jeggings might even be stylish. But she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know.

She listened to the radio. But not that Sirius XM type. Real, over-the-air radio. Regular, free, AM/FM radio was enough to launch her senses through the unexpected into atmospheric delight. Static toyed at the edges of sound, like gift paper being ripped off a present. Radio alarm clocks were gems that needed no treasure. Sound woke you, but not with a predictable buzz! Buzz! BUZZ! Rarely did you wake to the same Molher symphony or DJ. Voice talents, she thought they were called now. But she wasn’t sure. DJs only worked at weddings or clubs. Not that she’d been to either recently.

She liked shades, not blinds. Not curtains. She didn’t want the temptation of sheers or their provocative swishing. She craved the simplicity that pull-down shades provided. Not simplicity, really, so much as their polarity. The neighborhood was either on or off with shades. Not those half-turns or incremental shifting that provoked voyeurism. Too many thrillers started off with creeps at windows. Shades though. No one would ever accuse her of lurking. They knew when she was available for a friendly chat. You can still be neighborly with boundaries, after all.

She only ate with plastic flatware. It wasn’t a germ phobia. No, it wasn’t that. She wasn’t crazy. She could sanitize her stainless-steel Oneida by running it through the dishwasher, after all. She kept a pristine place setting for eight, just in case of surprise company. She was no barbarian and would never except her guests to de-bone pork chops as she did, with flimsy forks and bendy knives. For her, however, eating with plastic, especially the sets that came packaged in cellophane bags with salt and pepper and one threadbare napkin, was a treat. It reminded her of childhood picnics with Gran and Pap. Plastic was meant for special occasions, and wasn’t all food special? That’s what Gran always said. Starving children in Africa had neither food nor flatware.

She liked women. She liked how smooth their skin was, even when it wasn’t. Women had hidey-holes like alarm clocks, and she fantasized about the treasures stored there. She didn’t know, though. She wasn’t sure. But women, more than men, were in touch with their emotions. Emotions as varied as her many colored ink pens. Emotions that flowed like fountain pens and got stuck like knock-off Bics. She would know. She was sure.

She loved her breasts. They were her best feature, except maybe her slim feet. Her feet were elegant. Cinderella feet that would make glass slippers sparkle. But her breasts–not tatas or boobs or jugs–breasts–hers didn’t sag. They weren’t misshapen and didn’t look like fried eggs. No. She had classic Hollywood breasts. But she’d like to see others. She did enjoy fried eggs, after all. And many other women looked good in pocketed slacks. Oh, but how some women could entrance you with their filled-out jeans! Denim clinging in just the right places and pockets accentuating every inaccessible curve—oh, yes. She liked that. She didn’t care how other women ate. It didn’t matter whether they used chopsticks, plastic forks, or antique silver. All she could think about was spooning them. Wrapping her body around them like a present. But she’d never tell. No. She’d never tell. What if they rejected her? What if they ripped her off like gift paper? What if her voice was merely static or her words discordant babble? She had no talents after all, voice or otherwise. None aside from making casseroles. She wasn’t a Cinderella either, despite her elegant feet or trendy tights. She never would be. For now, and probably always, she’d watch other women from afar. And when it was too much to bear, she’d pull a shade over her heart.

*Copyright 2026 Jennifer McKenna. No part of this work may be used in training AI models or replicated in any form without the express written permission from the author.