edith zimmerman

A very short story.

I was at a party when this super-hot guy came up to me. He was like seven feet tall with retardedly huge muscles and super-tight clothes. Inwardly, I was like “Oh my god!” but outwardly I was cool.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, smiling. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Totally!” I said. “What kind of drink can I get?”

“Uh, whatever you want,” he said.

“I’ll have four whiskeys in one glass,” I said to the bartender.

“Whoa,” the guy said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to drink it all.”

“Huh?” the guy said, giving me a quizzical look.

I laughed. “It’s for washing out my cuts,” I said, picking up the glass and heading toward the bathroom. “Be right back!” Omg I was going to have a boyfriend finally!

OK very quick! I’ve been doing some other writing and I thought I’d put it here briefly:

For the Huffington Post: How To Make Your Husband a Nice Dinner.

And for The Awl: Letters to the Editors of Women’s Magazines, parts three and four.

OK that’s it!

A very short story.

I was washing my mug in the office kitchen when I heard someone come in behind me. I turned around and saw it was my friend Christina. She’s not really my friend, but she’s like an office friend. “Hey Christina, how’s it going?” I said.

“Oh, I’m good,” she said. “Tired.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m really tired, too.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m like, exhausted.”

“No kidding,” I said. “I’m totally drifting off at my desk.”

“Tell me about it. I’m like, about to fall over, literally.”

“Yeah, I was going to lie down on the floor right now,” I said.

“Oh yeah? I was actually already planning to do that,” she said as she lowered herself to the ground in front of the refrigerator.

I lowered myself down too, and shut my eyes. “Oh, this feels so good, I’m going to fall asleep, like, immediately.”

“Me too. I’m so tired I might never wake up.”

“Yeah, I was about to say—I bet I’ll die in my sleep.”

“I’ll definitely die—I drank poison earlier.”

“I drank poison, too,” I said.

Then we drifted into silence, and we both died in our sleep, at the office.

A very short story.

“Hi kids!” I said to the trick-or-treaters who had gathered on my porch. “Do you guys like candy?” I asked as I brought out the Halloween bowl.

“Yes!” they screamed.

“How much?” I asked.

“A lot!” they screamed.

“Do you love it?” I asked.

“Yes!” they screamed. “We love it!”

“So why don’t you marry it?” I asked.

“Nooo!” they screamed.

“Why not?” I asked.

“You can’t marry candy!” they screamed.

“Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do,” I said, fiddling with my wedding ring. “Ever.”

A very short story.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked my husband Paul.

“It’s a surprise,” he called from the kitchen.

“A good surprise or a bad surprise?” I called back.

“Not telling,” he said.

“Oh, just give me a clue!” I called.

“No,” he said.

“Yes!” I screamed.

“Quit it, Dana,” he said.

“Tell me what it is!” I yelled with a whiny voice at this super-screamy pitch. “Tell me, tell me, TELL ME!” I yelled as I stamped my feet on the floor.

“Dana! Stop stamping,” he said. “Get a grip on yourself.”

“I’m on-ly go-ing to-o sta-amp har-der!” I yelled back, stamping on every syllable.

“Jesus, Dana, what is wrong with you?” he said.

“Nothing!” I screamed. “What’s wrong with YOU?!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “I’m making you dinner right now. From scratch. Christ almighty, you’re a goddamn infant.”

“No I’m not!!!” I screamed back as loud as I could. “I’m forty-five.” I hate fighting with Paul, but sometimes it just… happens, you know? We’re only human. I am at least.

A very short story.

“Listen,” I said to my husband George. “George, I want a divorce.”

“What?!” he cried, turning to look at me from his special perch in the bay window, where he likes to sit and look out over the grounds. Our grounds. Formerly our grounds, if the divorce goes through. My grounds or his grounds afterward, but hopefully my grounds.

“I said, ‘I want a divorce,’” I said. “I don’t want to be married to you anymore.”

“What?!” he said, looking at me like I was growing a third arm from my head (my other two arms would be in the normal place—off my shoulders). Anyway.

“Just kidding,” I said. “April Fool’s joke.”

He frowned and shook his head. “April Fool’s jokes have to happen in April, Mary, and now it’s October. Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Can it be a Halloween joke?”

“Ugh, no,” he said, and turned away from me.

I felt bad, so I went and sat with him in the bay window, where together we looked out over the grounds. Our grounds.

A very short story.

“Little Jimmy Davidson is here for his checkup, Dr. Hartwell,” my secretary said over the telecom.

“Little Jimmy!” I said in return. “Perfect, perfect. Send him in immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and in a few moments little Jimmy Davidson shuffled shyly into my office.

“Hello, Jimmy!” I bellowed, to dispel his fear. “It’s nice to see you, little boy!” I smiled at him with all my teeth—a broad and professional grin. But instead of smiling back at me, he twisted one leg behind the other and stared down at the floor.

“Ohhh,” I said, getting up and walking toward him, “did wittle Jimmy not want to visit da doctow today?” I leaned down close to his face and used my child-friendly voice. “Is wittle Jimmy afwayd of big mistow doctow?” I asked.

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A very short story.

“I’m bleeding really bad,” I said to the person on 911 who picked up the phone. “I’m standing in a bucket, and it’s already almost all the way filled up with blood.”

Squawk squawk squawk.

“Why am I standing in a bucket? To catch the blood, obviously. What am I going to do, let it flow onto the floor?”

Squawk squawk squawk.

“Of course I put bandages over the wound—what am I, an idiot?”

Squawk squawk squawk.

“You shut up.”

Squawk squawk squawk.

“Oh, you jerk, that’s not nice. I’m hurt!” I started to cry.

Squawk squawk squawk.

I cried more loudly. “Now the bucket is running over onto the floor! Are you happy now? Are you thrilled?” I sobbed.

Squawk squawk squawk.

“I said, ‘Now the bucket is overflowing, you jackass!!’” I sobbed even harder, just feeling absolutely horrible.

Squawk squawk squawk.

By this point I was so weak that all I could do was whimper “Nuh-uh” and drop the phone into the bucket with a plop.

Hello! I wrote two more columns for The Awl—one went live today, the other went live two weeks ago. Ladies write the craziest letters! Anyway, I hope you like them. But if you don’t, I still recommend The Awl—it’s a terrific site. Also, who am I talking to when I say “you”? I don’t know!

A very short story.

It was a dark and stormy night, and I was alone in my house when the phone rang. “Hello?” I said. “Who is it?” But the person on the other end was silent. “This is Edith Zimmerman, who are you?” I asked. “I love to talk with people, please say something.” But there was just more silence along with a few snatches of ragged breathing and the faint sound of knives being sharpened. “Hello hello? Oh well, I’m excited you called, either way, because whenever I get to talk to someone it’s so awesome for me. So let me just say a big thank you, this is really, really great.” And here I paused to let whoever it was say something, like “You’re welcome,” but still they were so quiet! Although the sound of knives was getting a little louder. “So, what are you up to?” I asked. “Cooking? Are you getting ready to chop something up for dinner?” Just then I heard a low garbled groan. “Hey, you’re talking!” I said. “You’re going to talk to me! I can’t wait for what you’re going to say!” I was smiling so wide I could hardly contain it! It felt like my smile was so wide it would rip off the sides of my face and peel backward until my entire skull was exposed in the biggest, happiest smile ever.