Reynold stood frozen, sweating, in the middle of his perfectly rectangular front yard.
I never would have kissed her if she hadn't started to cry. A phrase he often repeated at times like these. As always, he summoned up her pink
cheeks and her sigh of relief.
Frank—a very short man, no more than two feet tall at most—emerged from the house,
toting an enormous pink eraser. Shaking his head wearily, he set to work scrubbing
the memory already worn thin from so much rubbing. First the pimple on her chin, then
the square brown tee shirt she always wore, then her small barrel of a chest, and
finally Reynold's already sagging waist pressed against her hips.
These parts were always the easiest. Reynold's thoughts, much more difficult. They
could be dulled, but never fully erased. At least I don't have to worry about dating. At least she likes me the way I am. Now
I can never leave.
When Frank had done the best he could with the memory, he looked up to survey the
scene. The lawn was only half mowed and a pool of red was growing around Reynold's
bare foot, his big toe severed and nestled in the grass next to the lawn mower a few
feet away. A medley of red, white and green.
Reynold turned to look at Frank square in the eyes. "Oh no," said Frank. "You're on
your own here, buddy. All I've got is an eraser."
