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"  A keen beam of fixation alights on her, directing her energies. As before, one day she was sleepwalking and the next she is vibrating in her skin. The feeling is huge and helium-filled, but it could be said that she has worn out her welcome on this subject. There is no one to call who will listen. She does research on the internet instead. Overhead, her nephew shrieks, &amp;quot;Not peas!&amp;quot; A glass is knocked over on the table. Her sister, Marjorie, slams plates into the dishwasher, and a few minutes later it begins to gurgle and hum. In high school, for a year-and-a-half, it was math. Solutions rose in her mind like dolphins leaping from the waves. When she completed a problem her mind felt fresh, as though bathed in sea water. She was placed in all the accelerated classes. People were pleased. Then one February afternoon, alone in her bedroom, she reached for the textbook and her heart banged and her mouth filled with peanut butter-flavored bile. It was over. She eked out a C, but only because Mr. J. was convinced he&amp;#039;d somehow alienated his prize student. An extended grey period ensued.  &amp;quot;Little Miss Hot and Cold,&amp;quot; her mother called her, long ago having been stung by the abrupt loss of her daughter&amp;#039;s ardor. Grey until her freshman year at Wellesley when she was seized by medieval literature. Grey again until she stumbled on surfing in her late 20s.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve heard about you,&amp;quot; a man recently told her at a reception. (Who had he talked to? Someone at the yoga center? A friend of Edwin&amp;#039;s?) She burped her martini. She tasted gasoline. She smiled as though he&amp;#039;d meant it as a compliment. Nan, the owner of the yoga center had called her. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s wrong? You have to tell Laura.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Nothing&amp;#039;s wrong.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Did someone do something?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;No! All of your instructors are wonderful.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;But you have two months left on your class card!&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m sorry.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;What about a Ladakh? It&amp;#039;s too late to cancel, you know.&amp;quot; She&amp;#039;d been in downward-facing dog, halfway through practice, when the blood dumped behind her eyes and the sticky mat sucked at her palms. She&amp;#039;d feigned a coughing jag to escape the room before she vomited or passed out. It&amp;#039;s no surprise that she shows an aptitude. And, as before, people want to help her. Spots are found in closed classes. Perhaps she should go to N.M. -- some of the best teachers are there. She has a bit of money saved up from her last temp job.  Of course she wants her life to have meaning, even as it seems more and more likely that an existence such as hers is trivial -- a life that could easily be summed up with room to spare, on a FUCKING COCKTAIL NAPKIN. The most recent email from her mentor advised Laura to make a decision about the conference in the next 24 hours. She clicks on the link to the registration form and begins entering her information. Laura knows that from the OUTSIDE it appears that she is refusing to grow up. That she thinks of no one but herself. &amp;quot;Who the hell do you think you are?&amp;quot; Marjorie asked the last time. INSIDE is long periods of her whole body hoping waiting hoping waiting really quite afraid waiting and waiting for the moment of impact: the oceanic roar, the gulp in her groin, the glorious goddamned release into urgency: supplies to be ordered, lessons to be arranged for, assignations, to-do lists.  INSIDE it is a gift from the gods, bestowed and withdrawn. It is being found blessedly deserving, and then, on second thought, found wanting. INSIDE is the question of free will. Is it even possible to turn her back on this? INSIDE the blade drops without warning. A severing. Glory is replaced by a thick grey film on her tonight. Edwin&amp;#039;s disbelief, incomprehension, his face wrecked and she couldn&amp;#039;t leave fast enough, so full of dread that he&amp;#039;d take one more clammy step closer. And still, would she trade the gift to avoid its being taken away? SHE WOULD NOT. It&amp;#039;s just as well that she doesn&amp;#039;t have anyone to call. She&amp;#039;d sound no less ridiculous than Charlie Brown or George W. -- maybe this time it will be different. Marjorie thumps home groceries upstairs. Cupboard doors thud. &amp;quot;Can I have a Popsicle?&amp;quot; her niece hollers from the backyard. Laura wonders: for whose benefit do her fingers pause over the keyboard?  Valerie Vogrin is the author of the novel Shebang. Her stories have appeared in journals including Black Warrior Review, New Orleans Review and The Florida Review. She is an assistant professor at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a4355/valerie-vogrin-napkin-fiction/>