JESSICA KLIMESH

Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane 

Meet Jane. See her smile at the camera. See her smile at Dick. See Dick and Jane speak in measured subtleties. Listen to how they say please and thank you, just like they’ve been taught. See them stand up straight, shoulders back, stomachs in. See Dick hold the door for Jane. See Jane nod in appreciation, her eyes twinkling like Alpha Canis Majoris, the brightest star in the sky. Soon they will graduate from high school. Maybe Jane will become a lawyer like her father. Maybe Dick will earn an MBA like his. Their teachers tell them they can do anything, be anything they want. Dick and Jane are naïve enough to believe them.  

When Jane gets her senior pictures back, she shows her friends, the other Janes. They exchange photos, put them in their photo albums, but no one can tell who is who, so they write their names on the backs. Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane.  

When they were just a few years younger, they all had big hair and neon-colored gummy bracelets. They danced to Madonna on the boombox at slumber parties and wore leg warmers and miniskirts. Now they talk about what they’ll major in, what their safety schools are, and which Dick they’ll marry. How many kids they’ll have. How many Janes, how many Dicks.  

When Dick gets his senior pictures back, he writes, “Jane, stay cool,” signs it “Dick,” but can’t decide whether to add a heart or not. Wonders which Jane to give it to. Decides on Jane. 

At the prom, Dick kisses Jane lightly on the cheek. The kiss is magenta, matches Jane’s taffeta dress. He then gives her a magenta kiss on the lips, then turns her tongue magenta, too. They dance and their bodies fuse together, alarming Jane. She hopes it’s just temporary. 

# 

Dick says I love you, Jane. 

And Jane says I love you, Dick. But see Jane look away when she says it. See her glance at the mobile of stars glittering above her bed, at the clock on the nightstand, at the stack of books beside it. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, On the Road, and Stranger in a Strange Land. See Dick follow her gaze. 

College has changed you, Dick says. But he smiles, pulls her closer.  

See Dick and Jane kiss. See Dick’s lips singe Jane’s. See her pull away in a backdrop of flame. 

Have you been cheating on me? Jane says. It’s Jane, isn’t it? 

See Dick fumble with flimsy excuses until the moment passes. See his words turn shades of red, then shades of green. Then chartreuse. 

See Dick reach between Jane’s legs, hopeful. Feel his want, his sureness. Listen to his words, then hear what he’s really saying.   

Will you marry me, Jane? Dick says. I’m set to inherit my father’s company. 

# 

Songs from Jane’s youth play on classic rock stations now. All of the other Janes are married, pregnant. They scoff at Jane’s ambition for something different. They scoff at her PhD, her sale-rack clothes, her monthly mortgage for only 900 square feet. They don’t like or comment on her Facebook statuses unless Jane posts a picture of a lavish meal or exotic drink, but that’s rare. Jane’s run through a succession of Dicks since Dick, found them all equally unsatisfying, the same story over and over again, the same weak promises and lack of imagination.  

Listen to Jane’s mother express her disappointment that Jane’s not married, that there are no grandchildren. There’s still time, her mother says. What about Dick?  

No, Jane says.  

Then what about Dick? 

No. 

Then what about Dick? 

Not him either. They’re all alike. 

Why do you always insist on doing things the hard way? her mother says. 

See Jane bite her tongue and swallow the release of blood. 

# 

At her thirtieth high school reunion, Jane sits with Jane, Jane, Jane, and Jane until a dance-party version of “When Doves Cry” coaxes them onto the dance floor. Afterward, Jane orders a martini and sucks on the olive. She looks at the abyss of mirrors and moon beams. Janes reflected high and low.  

Why didn’t you marry Dick? Jane asks Jane. You were always so good together. 

Because you married him. 

He goes by Richard now, Jane says. Because of his father. Their company, you know. Too many Dicks. 

See Jane stare at the sea of Janes and break them down into individual pixels until the Janes silently dissolve into the swaying night like dust. Jane inhales. Deep. Exhales. Calm. 

Hear Jane let out a nervous laugh when she feels his hand on her shoulder, both expected and unexpected. 

It’s me, it’s Richard! 

Dick? She says in mock surprise.  

Still alone, I see, Dick says. If only you’d married me.  

See Jane recoil at the thought, then apologize to Dick—Richard—for her reaction. A reflex, she says. Watch him nod without understanding, without caring. 

And then with nothing else to say, Jane says Well, it was good to see you, Dick. 

It’s Richard, he says. 

Watch as Jane then turns toward the other Janes, all drinking martinis and sucking on olives. Watch as the other Janes’ mirrored reflections distort, becoming fat, then short, then skinny, then tall, then wavy, then linear, their pixelated lives held together by coifed hair, pearls, diamonds, picket fences, tailored suits, and oxygen. See them fade away, indistinct fragments. 

See Jane wield a machete. See her slice through the throng of Janes. Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane.  

See Dick watch her as she cuts toward the door, toward the exit, toward her reflection on the wall, a sole, singular Jane. See all the Dicks watch her, captivated, at attention. See all the pixelated Janes watch her, bemused, unimpressed.  

She’s the one who got away, Richard says to no one and everyone. Watch him watch her go.  

Jessica Klimesh is a US-based writer and editor whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Frog, Cleaver, Atticus Review, trampset, and Stonecoast Review, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.