I heard the old woman at the Midnight Market gets you what you need. I was born without a heart but I need to find my other half, so I find the red and orange tents flapping in the evening breeze. The old woman sells heart ashes to me. She looks into my eyes and says mine are rotten. “Come back next week, I have something for you. Fix those peepers right up.” I tell her I can see just fine and take the cardboard box. I can only solve one issue at a time. Per her instructions, I add ocean water to the plastic bag inside. I knead the lump and press it into the plastic mold with the abnormally large aorta. Sand sticks to my fingers and I smell minerals and salt.
Making a heart for yourself turns out to be tiring. I wake to my heart dry in the morning sun. I have to get it into my body, but the old woman neglected to share those directions. I hold the heart and feel the grit stuck to the aorta.
Making a heart for yourself turns out to work up an appetite. The heart and cardboard box rest in the restaurant chair next to me. Now, I see a small card pressed into the side.
“Sing,” it reads.
My heart falls to the floor and breaks into four chambers. I spackle it together with cheese and maple syrup.
I return to the beach, but the Midnight Market is gone. Only wrappings and empty cans remain in the sand. I sing and sing, but nothing happens. The heart crumbles in my hands, and I swallow it one fistful at a time.
Tammy L. Evans is a writer, teacher, and coach living in a tiny house on a peninsula with her husband and 2 cats. Her location device is her loud laugh. You can find her at IG @writertammy
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