the soul of mrs. splitz

mrs splitz can’t find her soul. she hopes she has misplaced it. she searches up and down, left and right, over and under, and yet there is no soul to be seen anywhere. mrs. splitz sits down resignedly and picks up a magazine. she hopes that if she stops searching and starts to read nonchalantly, the soul will stealthily creep back in her chest and she will feel complete again. or maybe it will happen like that time during the snowstorm, when a good samaritan found her purse and brought it back to her door before she realized she had lost it. mrs splitz is ready for the knock of the good samaritan.
most likely her soul has not been stolen. because she places no value in her property, it is usually not stolen. she does not worry overmuch either, because sooner or later it will turn up, just like those half used metrocards that turn up in every corner of her current satchel. it just irks her that it hasn’t turned up yet.
oh, where did that wretched thing disappear? mrs. splitz is uneasy. she has done some things, some strange things that she would have never done if her soul was in its place. and then she has tried to mask the soulless deeds just like spraying the kitchen with fragrance after burning dinner. if the soul does not turn up soon, she will have to replace it. and it is such a hassle calling up God and asking for another one, or harassing the other one until he hoofs it into this world and fetches it for her. and she knows what his price is.
to calm herself down, mrs. splitz tries to think of the good samaritan. will he be the same tall thin fair birdlike man with the overbite, mullet and mustache, like an outdated angel who only comes in the world every 30 years to return souls to their harried owners? or will he probably be tall and dark this time, brooding and unnecessarily smart, solemnly carrying her most valuable possession and making her feel like she has to prepare for retribution?
for whatever reason, mrs. splitz never thinks that the good samaritan will be short. or female. or a minority. or a family member. sitting in her couch and mindlessly browsing through pictures of happy celebrities, she enacts the happening in her head, the way she will replace wariness with joy when the tall stranger will hand over her soul, the sparkle in her eyes and the caress in her voice tilting her head just so, and rewarding him with warm, fuzzy feelings. it might be the start of a beautiful friendship.
lost in her thoughts, she almost does not feel the squelch of something underneath her, and it takes a moment before she realizes that something is creeping up through her spine, into her ribcage, lungs, heart and settling to its rightful place. yep, her soul is once again found. mrs. splitz regretfully gives up the fantasy of the good samaritan and goes about the business of deed fixing.

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