It was purple, fingerless, and probably not his at all. Still, it was right by where his car had been parked and, even though I couldn’t imagine him wearing it even if it had been a gift, it was still possible that it was his. The likelihood of him buying it himself was so miniscule that it almost didn’t exist at all. Maybe, if it’d been some kind of evil enchanted stocking-stuffer from Satan, he’d have worn it religiously. But if that was the case, he should have been relieved and not upset that he’d lost his gloves. Perhaps most importantly, he wouldn’t have called them his favourite pair, as we hovered by the door earlier that morning, each of us making half-hearted comments like, “Well, I should go or I’ll be late for work...” And I wouldn’t have promised to give it back if I found it. I certainly wouldn’t have gone on this absurd glove hunt, as though it were pirate’s treasure or an Easter egg or a witch. More to the point, I wouldn’t be standing here staring down at a glove half-immersed in a newly-formed puddle, seriously debating fishing it out and bringing it home with me just in case.
My mind was on overdrive and I was thinking that I was pretty sure I’d passed that tree more than a few times before, when I felt a tap on my shoulder, soon followed by a man’s concerned voice asking, “Are you all right, miss?”
“Just trying to make a decision,” I said, looking up. I was a little startled. I think I’d forgotten I was out in public. (Public: where people think you’re crazy for staring intently at your shoes or a wet glove for extended periods of time.)
The man nodded with exaggerated sage-ness. “Decisions are often difficult,” he said, “What is it you are trying to decide?”
I debated not answering his question. I really didn’t want him to think I was crazy. But crazy is as crazy does. “I’m not sure if I should pick up that glove.”
“I collect coins,” he offered, “Sometimes stamps. But I like coins better. They’re round. If it was rare, I’d pick up a coin from a puddle on the street." He poked the glove with his cane. “That glove doesn’t look rare. You could buy another. With fingers, maybe. If it was a stamp, I wouldn’t pick it up. It’d be ruined. Can’t wash stamps. Not even on a gentle cycle. Stamps are funny like that.”
“Silly Grampa!” A toddler on his tricycle peddled up to us. “We’re not at the park yet!”
“Yes, my boy, we’re going soon,” he said, “But we’ve got a damsel in distress here. And a glove hangs in the balance.”
My eyes went back to the glove in question. I couldn’t help it. It drew my eyes like a black hole draws planets. Actually, I wasn’t sure if that was possible. Some say black holes don’t exist.
His grandson paused, and then, unmoved, said, “But I wanna go on the slide!”
It’s funny how words can sound like what they refer to. He whined the word “slide” until it appeared, bright yellow and plastic, in my mind’s eye, and I was sliding down it, like Alice into a rabbit hole. I’d never really considered that before. Did rabbits really have holes? Maybe it was actually a gopher?
“This is silly,” I said, “I can decide this. It’s just a glove. A stupid purple fingerless glove that just can’t be his unless it actually is. Do you have a quarter? I’ll flip it.”
“I’d give you a quarter, but I wouldn’t want you to lose it in the puddle. Quarters aren’t rare, but they aren’t exactly pennies either,” the old man said, “Are you looking for a specific glove? I can keep an eye out for it. Maybe there’s one at the park.”
I sighed. If only it was that easy. I should have asked what it looked like. I should have, at the very least, glanced at his other glove. “That’s all right. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for anyway. I figured I’d know it when I saw it... but....”
He smiled encouragingly. As he slowly walked away, I heard him say to his young grandson, “Those naughty kittens! They lost their mittens!”
Shaking my head, I picked up the glove. It was dirty and dripping wet, but I couldn’t leave without it, and I couldn’t stand there any longer. It was the right thing to do. Yes, I was satisfied with this decision. I couldn’t risk leaving it soaking there if it could have been his. There was a spring in my step as I continued on my walk, holding the glove before me by one of its dirty half-fingers.
I could just picture the look in his eyes when I would return his glove to him. Elated, mischievous, hot.
“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” he’d say.
“I have some ideas,” I’d say.
I stopped walking.
It was blue, nylon, with fingers. Much more like I’d think his style would be, but I didn’t remember walking down that way with him. I stared down at it, and then eyed the purple one in my hand, and knew what I had to do.
A glove in each hand, I was mid-way through congratulating myself on my fine-tuned decision-making skills when I found yet another one. It was black.
Muttering to myself, I picked it up. “Coin collecting, eh...”
Friday, February 19, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction Story-- Night Shift Eternal
She's been dead 13 years now and I still think I hear her open the door exactly at 7 am. 7 am, I would have been just waking up, and she'd come in, exhausted, and flop down on the bed beside me.
"Honey," she'd say, "I swear working night shift just kills me."
And, half-asleep, I'd mumble something along the lines of "Switch shifts already."
And she'd laugh. "I like night shift. I work the forgotten hours, the hours that don't exist. They're magical and starry and each night, when the world's asleep, I discover them."
She worked indoors, but I could just picture her staring up at the ceiling as if she could see the stars anyway, you know? She never cared if people thought she was strange.
Sometimes I wish she had a grave just so I could go scream at her.
I imagine myself smashing her grave, until the stone breaks into so many tiny crumbs, the sweet message I'd have put on there would be impossible to read, and people deep in their own thoughts and mourning would kick them down the street in passing.
And then I'd yell, "Not so damn magical now, is it?!"
Oh. It sounds terrible when I say that aloud. I've never told anyone that before. It's strange telling a stranger, but I guess that makes sense, eh?
Please don't get the wrong idea. I loved her and anyway she was cremated, so you don't have to worry about me doing anything drastic.
All I can do is wake up the same time I've woken up all these years, and listen for the jingle of her keys and her heavy, tired steps up the stairs. Every morning, I listen so hard I almost feel my eardrums shatter with the hope of it.
Oh, trust me, I've tried not to. I've tried to sleep in. I've tried the radio and the TV. I've tried reading and eating and drinking too much rum. Nothing works.
I should be over it, right? 13 years is a long time. Our kids grew up: Sheila's 20, Don's 25. I changed the voicemail. I cancelled her magazine subscriptions. I donated her clothes and her books.
But I can't make it stop.
What do you think? When I hear the jingle and those damned steps every morning, do you think I'm crazy or do you think it's really her?
Yes, of course, it matters. If it's me, I'd want you to give me drugs that begin with every letter of the alphabet. If it's her, it wouldn't really help, now would it? If she's stuck in some kind of hereafter, me taking all the drugs in the world wouldn't change that. 13 years is a long time to be trapped. Trust me, I'd know.
I have to forgive her? For what? It's not like she could have helped that she was working that night. It's not like she could have known that man would bring a gun to work. Not like she could have stopped him. That one lady--the one who hid under a desk--said Myra tried talking to him. She said that after he killed that first guy, Myra pleaded with him to put the gun down. She'd worked with him for 5 years. And the bastard shot her. You believe that? But she didn't do anything wrong. There's nothing to forgive.
Coming here was a mistake. I don't know what I expected you to do, 13 years after the fact. You don't have the answers. You don't even have the drugs. All you have is a prescription. Words on a piece of paper that I wouldn't even be able to read.
I tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to go home and forget about all this. I'm going to pretend I never heard your pretentious gibberish. And tomorrow, I'm going to listen real hard for her coming up those stairs. I figure, either I'll hear her finally reach the bedroom, or I'll go deaf trying.
So that's it, then. I'm gone.
No hard feelings, eh? Can't save us all. Best of luck with your next hopeless case.
"Honey," she'd say, "I swear working night shift just kills me."
And, half-asleep, I'd mumble something along the lines of "Switch shifts already."
And she'd laugh. "I like night shift. I work the forgotten hours, the hours that don't exist. They're magical and starry and each night, when the world's asleep, I discover them."
She worked indoors, but I could just picture her staring up at the ceiling as if she could see the stars anyway, you know? She never cared if people thought she was strange.
Sometimes I wish she had a grave just so I could go scream at her.
I imagine myself smashing her grave, until the stone breaks into so many tiny crumbs, the sweet message I'd have put on there would be impossible to read, and people deep in their own thoughts and mourning would kick them down the street in passing.
And then I'd yell, "Not so damn magical now, is it?!"
Oh. It sounds terrible when I say that aloud. I've never told anyone that before. It's strange telling a stranger, but I guess that makes sense, eh?
Please don't get the wrong idea. I loved her and anyway she was cremated, so you don't have to worry about me doing anything drastic.
All I can do is wake up the same time I've woken up all these years, and listen for the jingle of her keys and her heavy, tired steps up the stairs. Every morning, I listen so hard I almost feel my eardrums shatter with the hope of it.
Oh, trust me, I've tried not to. I've tried to sleep in. I've tried the radio and the TV. I've tried reading and eating and drinking too much rum. Nothing works.
I should be over it, right? 13 years is a long time. Our kids grew up: Sheila's 20, Don's 25. I changed the voicemail. I cancelled her magazine subscriptions. I donated her clothes and her books.
But I can't make it stop.
What do you think? When I hear the jingle and those damned steps every morning, do you think I'm crazy or do you think it's really her?
Yes, of course, it matters. If it's me, I'd want you to give me drugs that begin with every letter of the alphabet. If it's her, it wouldn't really help, now would it? If she's stuck in some kind of hereafter, me taking all the drugs in the world wouldn't change that. 13 years is a long time to be trapped. Trust me, I'd know.
I have to forgive her? For what? It's not like she could have helped that she was working that night. It's not like she could have known that man would bring a gun to work. Not like she could have stopped him. That one lady--the one who hid under a desk--said Myra tried talking to him. She said that after he killed that first guy, Myra pleaded with him to put the gun down. She'd worked with him for 5 years. And the bastard shot her. You believe that? But she didn't do anything wrong. There's nothing to forgive.
Coming here was a mistake. I don't know what I expected you to do, 13 years after the fact. You don't have the answers. You don't even have the drugs. All you have is a prescription. Words on a piece of paper that I wouldn't even be able to read.
I tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to go home and forget about all this. I'm going to pretend I never heard your pretentious gibberish. And tomorrow, I'm going to listen real hard for her coming up those stairs. I figure, either I'll hear her finally reach the bedroom, or I'll go deaf trying.
So that's it, then. I'm gone.
No hard feelings, eh? Can't save us all. Best of luck with your next hopeless case.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Friday Flash Fiction Story-- UFOGG
“Like Superman?” Jimmy said almost hopefully.
I shook my head. “No. Not like Superman.”
“Oh! Oh! Roswell! Area 51! Independence day!” he suggested excitedly, “Star Trek? Star Wars!” There was waving of arms. Above his head.
I sighed. “Do you have to define my existence through television and movies?”
“Yes.” As if it was absurd for me to think it could be understood any other way. I did a classic facepalm before I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up.
He let his hand stay on my shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. Stifling a giggle, I wondered if he noticed. Then I wondered if he did it on purpose. I could never really figure out what we were, Jimmy and I. We were friends, of course, but sometimes, I thought we could have been something more. And when he touched me, I could almost believe he felt it too.
“Define the new through what we know, we do,” he said, “Mmm-hmm.”
“You suck at Yoda, but fine, I guess...” Shrugging, I looked at him sideways. I paused. “Roswell then.”
He nodded, understanding, and for a moment I was purely glad he was in my life—whatever he was. I did just want to be a normal kid, like those in Roswell. It was all I had ever known, and then suddenly, I find out this strange truth about me, the truth that changes everything about everything. But it’s all right, because I had Jimmy to help me through it, to help me find my way back to normality.
“Want some hot sauce then?”
The image I’d pictured of him leading me though a thick forest suddenly crumpled in my mind’s eye. I shot him a look.
“I’m just joking, Bree,” he said, “Wait, should I still call you that? Bree?”
“What else would you call me?” I said.
“Alien interloper?” His hands twitched as though they were about to start waving around again. I eyed them, willing them to still. “Spawn of the non-Earthlings?”
“How about Un-human Former Ordinary Girl?”
“UFOG? Nice try,” he said, “It would have to have a double “G”. Un-human Former Ordinary Geek Girl. UFOGG. Or does the geek negate the ordinary? But no. Just no. Let’s stick with Bree. Deal?”
“So very much a deal.” I grinned back at him. We shook on it. So human name Bree it is. But I couldn’t help but wonder--did I have another name? I stared up at the night sky and the stars stared back at me through the clouds. On a less cloudy day, could I see the planet of my ancestors?
He tugged on my hand, and I gave in, standing up with a groan. “Walk and talk,” he said, “Okay, so why Roswell?”
I shrugged. “Because they were cool.”
“As opposed to Superman, of course.”
I groaned. Back to Superman. “Bah. I don’t have superpowers.”
“They had superpowers in Roswell. You need to re-watch your DVDs,” he said, “In fact, I’ll make you a list of necessary viewing. Think of it as a history lesson of your people.”
I stopped walking; he didn’t. “My people?”
“Okay, okay. Alien folk,” he amended quickly, walking back to where I stood.
“What? No, I mean, it’s all fiction, and not about my people or whatever.”
“How do you know they didn’t encounter your kind and base the movies off that?” he asked, tapping my arm a few extra times for good measure. I hadn’t thought of it before, but it could be possible. And there are a lot of movies.
“Aha!” he said triumphantly at my lack of response.
“Do you care that I’m...not....human?” I asked.
“You were never human,” he said, “Why should it start to bother me now?”
“Thank you,” I said. I felt tears swim over my eyes and spill out over my cheeks.
He wiped them away, his fingers tracing their own paths on my face. “Don’t cry, Bree...”
We were so close, one of his hands on my waist, the other catching an errant tear. My breath caught. I looked into his grey eyes, grey like the clouds above, grey like his sweater and he smiled. He moved his hand to the back of my neck, guiding me closer yet. Finally, I thought, all these years I’d been waiting for this moment. Finally.
His lips descended towards mine. All I could hear was my heart beating too quickly in my chest. I closed my eyes, leaned yet closer.
“Firefly?” he whispered.
“What?!” I muttered. Of their own accord, my eyes opened slightly. “There were no aliens in Firefly.”
His smile widened. “Okay, you pass.”
And then, finally, we kissed. It was only for a moment, but it was a moment I’d been waiting for since I’d met him.
“That was...” he breathed.
“I know,” I said, smiling back at him. I loved that his arms were still tight around me. We stood like that for a moment that I would have stretched into eternity if I could.
“I feel like Captain Kirk,” he said.
“I know.”
I shook my head. “No. Not like Superman.”
“Oh! Oh! Roswell! Area 51! Independence day!” he suggested excitedly, “Star Trek? Star Wars!” There was waving of arms. Above his head.
I sighed. “Do you have to define my existence through television and movies?”
“Yes.” As if it was absurd for me to think it could be understood any other way. I did a classic facepalm before I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up.
He let his hand stay on my shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. Stifling a giggle, I wondered if he noticed. Then I wondered if he did it on purpose. I could never really figure out what we were, Jimmy and I. We were friends, of course, but sometimes, I thought we could have been something more. And when he touched me, I could almost believe he felt it too.
“Define the new through what we know, we do,” he said, “Mmm-hmm.”
“You suck at Yoda, but fine, I guess...” Shrugging, I looked at him sideways. I paused. “Roswell then.”
He nodded, understanding, and for a moment I was purely glad he was in my life—whatever he was. I did just want to be a normal kid, like those in Roswell. It was all I had ever known, and then suddenly, I find out this strange truth about me, the truth that changes everything about everything. But it’s all right, because I had Jimmy to help me through it, to help me find my way back to normality.
“Want some hot sauce then?”
The image I’d pictured of him leading me though a thick forest suddenly crumpled in my mind’s eye. I shot him a look.
“I’m just joking, Bree,” he said, “Wait, should I still call you that? Bree?”
“What else would you call me?” I said.
“Alien interloper?” His hands twitched as though they were about to start waving around again. I eyed them, willing them to still. “Spawn of the non-Earthlings?”
“How about Un-human Former Ordinary Girl?”
“UFOG? Nice try,” he said, “It would have to have a double “G”. Un-human Former Ordinary Geek Girl. UFOGG. Or does the geek negate the ordinary? But no. Just no. Let’s stick with Bree. Deal?”
“So very much a deal.” I grinned back at him. We shook on it. So human name Bree it is. But I couldn’t help but wonder--did I have another name? I stared up at the night sky and the stars stared back at me through the clouds. On a less cloudy day, could I see the planet of my ancestors?
He tugged on my hand, and I gave in, standing up with a groan. “Walk and talk,” he said, “Okay, so why Roswell?”
I shrugged. “Because they were cool.”
“As opposed to Superman, of course.”
I groaned. Back to Superman. “Bah. I don’t have superpowers.”
“They had superpowers in Roswell. You need to re-watch your DVDs,” he said, “In fact, I’ll make you a list of necessary viewing. Think of it as a history lesson of your people.”
I stopped walking; he didn’t. “My people?”
“Okay, okay. Alien folk,” he amended quickly, walking back to where I stood.
“What? No, I mean, it’s all fiction, and not about my people or whatever.”
“How do you know they didn’t encounter your kind and base the movies off that?” he asked, tapping my arm a few extra times for good measure. I hadn’t thought of it before, but it could be possible. And there are a lot of movies.
“Aha!” he said triumphantly at my lack of response.
“Do you care that I’m...not....human?” I asked.
“You were never human,” he said, “Why should it start to bother me now?”
“Thank you,” I said. I felt tears swim over my eyes and spill out over my cheeks.
He wiped them away, his fingers tracing their own paths on my face. “Don’t cry, Bree...”
We were so close, one of his hands on my waist, the other catching an errant tear. My breath caught. I looked into his grey eyes, grey like the clouds above, grey like his sweater and he smiled. He moved his hand to the back of my neck, guiding me closer yet. Finally, I thought, all these years I’d been waiting for this moment. Finally.
His lips descended towards mine. All I could hear was my heart beating too quickly in my chest. I closed my eyes, leaned yet closer.
“Firefly?” he whispered.
“What?!” I muttered. Of their own accord, my eyes opened slightly. “There were no aliens in Firefly.”
His smile widened. “Okay, you pass.”
And then, finally, we kissed. It was only for a moment, but it was a moment I’d been waiting for since I’d met him.
“That was...” he breathed.
“I know,” I said, smiling back at him. I loved that his arms were still tight around me. We stood like that for a moment that I would have stretched into eternity if I could.
“I feel like Captain Kirk,” he said.
“I know.”
Friday, October 30, 2009
Flash Fiction Story: Destiny
His hand closed upon my shoulder. I lifted my head at his touch, but
didn't look back. I knew him well enough not to have to. The dark
flowing robes, the sickle. It could be only one.
"It's time," he said, "I'm sorry."
The words echoed ominously in the air as he withdrew his hand.
As he laid a scroll upon my outstretched palms, he looked almost
regretful. I unrolled it and read the single printed line without
reaction. "This is a death sentence," it proclaimed.
"Destiny to be met and all," he said in a voice that was barely
audible. Even so, I heard a smile in his voice, a hunger in it, that
belied his apparent regret.
I opened my eyes then, rubbed the sleep from them, and put on my
favorite wig--the one that looked even better than the hair that once
flowed luxuriously from my now-bald scalp.
"Destiny," I said, "The name's Mirabelle. Nice to meet you."
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didn't look back. I knew him well enough not to have to. The dark
flowing robes, the sickle. It could be only one.
"It's time," he said, "I'm sorry."
The words echoed ominously in the air as he withdrew his hand.
As he laid a scroll upon my outstretched palms, he looked almost
regretful. I unrolled it and read the single printed line without
reaction. "This is a death sentence," it proclaimed.
"Destiny to be met and all," he said in a voice that was barely
audible. Even so, I heard a smile in his voice, a hunger in it, that
belied his apparent regret.
I opened my eyes then, rubbed the sleep from them, and put on my
favorite wig--the one that looked even better than the hair that once
flowed luxuriously from my now-bald scalp.
"Destiny," I said, "The name's Mirabelle. Nice to meet you."
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Friday, October 23, 2009
Flash Fiction Story - Worst Case Scenario
I paced around the room another time for good measure before answering, "He tells me he's put fast-acting poison in my coffee and I'll be dead before I can stand up?"
She pursed her lips. "Don't drink the coffee."
"He could put it in lemonade, too."
"For Heaven's sake, Marcia," she said, "you don't have to list every possible drink they sell at the cafe that could be poisoned. All I'm saying is don't do anything you're not comfortable with."
I blinked back tears. "I'm not comfortable with this. With any of this."
In one smooth motion, Pamela left her chair and was immediately beside me, shrink-wrapping me with her arms.
"I know, baby sister, I know," she murmured into my hair. "Do you want me to go with you? I could, you know. Or I could go instead of you."
"I haven't been your baby sister for a couple dozen years now," I said, "and no, I have to do this alone."
I tried in vain to disentangle myself from her all-encompassing arms. She always turned into such an octopus when she hugged. She hugged like her hug was the only thing keeping the hug-ee from being swallowed up by the earth. I'd say her hugs brought out my claustrophobia, but that would be a slight exaggeration.
Pamela squeezed me even tighter before finally releasing me. "You'll always be my baby sister. Even when you're as old as dirt. Hey, remember when Pluto was a planet?"
I awarded her a a subtle upward tugging of my lips that only she could have caught and she grinned triumphantly back at me in response.
"Okay. Here I go. Moving. Anytime now. See you after the Last Great Meet-up. Bye-bye." But my feet didn't obey my words and I looked at Pamela helplessly. "Well....this is me going..."
"Careful, don't get whiplash..." Pamela shot me one of her infamous looks, again reminding me of pre-stroke Mom. I may have been the one to resemble Mom the most when it came to looks, but Pamela had definitely inherited her mannerisms and intonations. I never told her this, though, in case it made her stop.
"Right. I can do this," I said, "I'll just go. Tell him in the end, love just wasn't enough. Tell him it was fun. Tell him I'll always remember him. Not tell him what he has to change because there's no point. Give him back his jacket and that random orange sock. And then get the hell out of Dodge before I pull a Niagara Falls."
She smiled wryly at me and handed me my own coat. With one last lingering look into the mirror, I strode semi-confidently to the door.
"Hey, kid?"
I turned around, eyebrow raised.
She paused, poker-faced. "Don't drink the lemonade."
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Friday, October 16, 2009
Flash Fiction Story: Silent Treatment
So she's sitting there again when I come in. On the floor, cross-legged, facing away from me. At first I think she's doing one of those exercise things, whatever you call them. Pilot-eez or Yoda or something. I know she's not, but I try to pretend.
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"Hello, dear, I'm home..." I say.
I put down by bag and take off my coat before I glance back at her. Sure enough, she's still in the same position. If I had some fraction-measuring ruler, I doubt it would have registered even the smallest change. I hate how she just sits there. She does this now. I come home, and she doesn't react. She robot-ifies. It's a thing.
"Did you make anything for dinner?" I ask.
Again, no answer. Last night I had to eat emergency rations. I tried to give her one but she didn't even blink at me. When I got up in the morning, she was still sitting there, the un-opened rations bar same as where I'd placed it. If it keeps up this way, I'll probably starve. A man can't survive on emergency rations forever. He'd die of culinary boredom. It happened to a friend of mine. He wrecked his shuttle on some human-forsaken planetoid and when rescue found him, he was dead
as the 'toid. There were still plenty of Emerations so it's not like he ran out of supplies. They did an autopsy but afterwards, all they could say was he should be alive today. I knew the guy: he lived for food, and Emerations just couldn't cut it. Don't want to end up like him, but with her sitting there like that, I think I might be on the same damn 'toid, emergency-rationing myself to death.
When we first got married, things were different, things were simple. I got home, she was there, dinner was made, love was made, sleep was slept. That was before my promotion. We were young and in love and all that. Things were different afterwards. She couldn't support my work,
she said. It's wrong to de-ecologize a planet for our own use, she argued, there are other beings to consider. Well, excuse me for trying to provide for her, for the family we were supposed to have. And those beings? Not even sentient. She wants to sacrifice our livelihood, our futures, for insects and rodents and plant life! Ridiculous.
"Okay, dear, I'm going to bed then. You coming?" I say, grabbing an Emerations shake for variety. Same awful substance, in liquid form. I can't decide which is worse, so I alternate.
She doesn't say anything. She's probably waiting for me to go into the other room before she moves. She's probably sitting there wishing I would just leave. These days, even though I know she hates my job as much as ever, she probably wants me to stay there all the time, not come home at all. She's probably glad she couldn't have children now.
"That's it," I say, "The final push of my abort-mission button!"
So I get back into the room where she's sitting and tap her on the shoulder. I'm not going to stop until she reacts. Took a couple of minutes, but then she turns her head and opens her mouth, and her eyes lock onto mine.
"Three days, five hours, twelve seconds since I left this robot in my place," a strange electronic version of my wife's voice says, "and you have failed to notice the difference. Should have done this long ago. Have a nice life."
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Friday, October 2, 2009
Flash Fiction Story-Recipe for Love
INGREDIENTS
• 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, once around the pan in a slow
stream
• 1 tablespoon butter
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 shallots, minced
• 1 cup vodka
• 1 cup chicken stock
• 1 can crushed tomatoes (32 ounces)
• Coarse salt and pepper
• 16 ounces pasta, such as penne rigate
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 20 leaves fresh basil, shredded or torn
Serve with:
• Crusty bread, for passing
Heat a large skillet over moderate heat. Add oil, butter, garlic and
shallots. Gently sauté shallots for 3 to 5 minutes to develop their
sweetness. Add vodka to the pan (3 turns around the pan in a steady
stream will equal about 1 cup). Reduce vodka by half, this will take 2
or 3 minutes. Add chicken stock, tomatoes. Bring sauce to a bubble and
reduce heat to simmer. Season with salt and pepper.
While sauce simmers, cook pasta in salted boiling water until cooked
to al dente (with a bite to it). While pasta cooks, prepare your salad
or other side dishes.
Stir cream into sauce. When sauce returns to a bubble, remove it from
heat. Drain pasta. Toss hot pasta with sauce and basil leaves. Pass
pasta with crusty bread.*
It was that recipe that made her fall in love with him. She still
liked to look at it from time to time, to remember the dream of it--
the fantasy of that first night.
Two years after her husband had left her for the pretty blonde dental
hygienist, the seed that was her loneliness had grown into a tree
whose shadow she lived in daily--until one morning when she found she
no longer took comfort from its shade.
"What do I have to lose?" she said, with a laugh, to a friend that
day.
"Meet your Match: A Match Made in Heaven!" proclaimed the site, but
the repetition and play on clichés did nothing to encourage her. At
first she debated each question at length. Some (Would you describe
yourself as introverted?) were easy to answer while others (If you
were a part of a pineapple, which part would you be?) perplexed her.
After a while, she clicked responses without thinking, without even
reading the question in its entirety. If she happened to catch a
mistake, she often didn't alter it--for reasons which alternated
between skepticism and fatalism.
When she bit her lip, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and clicked
"finish", she nearly passed out. Almost immediately, her matches
started flowing in. Caroline skimmed the matches, eliminating the ones
with the more unsavory words or pictures. Of the ones that remained,
most were so formulaic that she passed over them too, their printed
words devolving into "blah blah blah" in her mind's ear.
Just when Caroline had given up hope of finding anyone worthwhile to
"wink" at (wink? she thought, Seriously? I'm supposed to "wink" at men
that interest me? Maybe it should be "honk". How crude!), his profile
caught her eye. Oh, he was attractive, but it wasn't his photo that
captured her.
Instead of writing about himself (as most self-centered men seemed to
enjoy on this site), he'd posted a recipe. What a strange thing to do,
she thought as she tapped "print" repeatedly.
In the car, for the first time in years, she found herself excited for
dinner.
At the grocery store, Caroline searched for the ingredients with
relish, pausing each time she saw someone plucking the same items off
the shelves to wonder if she had seen the same profile, and was
preparing the same dinner. Somehow, it made her feel far less alone.
In her kitchen, sautéing seemed sensual; turning simmering into
boiling was almost climatic. And eating it did things to her pallet
she hadn't thought possible.
By the time Caroline had finished savouring the last bite, she was a
little surprised to find herself thoroughly in love. Only that, after
all, could have made her rush to her computer before even clearing the
table or washing the dishes.
Scanning all the supposed heavenly-made matches, she desperately
looked for her love, "Cooking4U". Caroline could scarcely wait to
"wink" at him, to tell him how much she had enjoyed dinner, to find
out his real name, to meet him in person. If he was anything like the
pasta, she thought, she really had found her match. Visions of a
spokeswoman-future flooded her thoughts. She could see an image of
herself with her handsome new husband, and a quote, "I met my match,
and you can too!"...or something more original, some clever play on
words that would melt the hearts of naysayers and bring love to the
searching.
Oh yes, months later, she could remember the fantasy of it all, could
still taste it on her tongue. It wasn't unlike her first marriage.
Perhaps it always started that way, before diminishing into reality.
Maybe there was a biological reason for it; there usually was for such
things. Or maybe the heart was simply funnel-shaped, closing off until
but a trickle might escape into it.
She'd still make the pasta, of course, it was too good not to. Not for
herself, but for others, and then afterwards, when her friends and
family would drone on at length about how amazing it was, she'd
readily hand over the recipe. When they'd ask where she'd come across
it, though, Caroline's lips would curve into a bitter-sweet smile.
That was the one secret she'd never tell, the one story she'd keep to
herself. After all, she'd die before letting anyone know she'd fallen
in love with an ad for a cookbook.
*Recipe passed along to me years ago by a friend; original source
unknown
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