Retrograde

Retrograde

Fiction by Tiffany Clarke Harrison

I lied when you called last night. 
I wasn’t standing outside a bookstore waiting for a friend. I was sitting on the toilet, locked in the bathroom with an uncorked bottle of wine at my feet. You see, my son, Sawyer, is four and a half and a lousy listener, an unfortunate yet common trait among males that, since having him, I realize begins at birth. Men start out not listening to their mothers. They are so used to the timbre of her voice--they have been listening to it since wee embryos after all--that as early as the age of four, they have already tuned her out.