Does Size Matter?

This post is in response to a prompt on Eric Krause's blog, http://ejkwritingspot.blogspot.com/2011/07/writing-prompt-70.html

It's not that I ever wanted to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Nor did I ever consider entering an Olympic high jump or pole vault competition. All I really wanted was to be able to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without standing on my tippy toes, standing on the bottom shelf or, if necessary asking another shopper or store employee to grab a box of FiberOne granola bars. (Why do they always put them on the top shelf?)

While browsing Facebook one day, I saw a link to an article in the Wall Street Journal about a new designer drug that could put a particular drug company back on track. Multiple lawsuits against the company had resulted from TV commercials claiming that birth defects may have resulted from taking any drug they had ever made and the stock had dropped considerably. This new medication, taken in liquid form, could actually cause a temporary growth spurt of up to six inches which would last as long as 24 hours. According to studies, it wasn't recommended that the drug be taken daily, but on an occasional basis it was shown to do no harm in monkeys whose growth was stunted through heredity. Could I possibly be like one of those monkeys? Although my mother was considered short at 5'2", my sister and my cousin were the exact same height as me--4'10-1/2". It seemed worth looking into.

The day after reading the article I made an appointment with my physician to discuss it. Well, actually, I don't see a physician. When I have a medical problem I go to the physician's office and see the Nurse Practitioner. In five years I have never once met the doctor who owns the practice. Although he's a General Practitioner, he and his wife specialize in cosmetic procedures and work together in the office adjoining the one I visit injecting Botox and fillers into wrinkles for baby boomers who are tired of hairstyles with bangs to cover their creasing foreheads and wearing turtlenecks to hide their newly wattled necks. But I digress.

A few days later I went to see the NP and asked her about this new drug. She had read the same article but didn't pay much attention. At a height of 5'8" it didn't interest her in a personal way. I explained to her that I'm terrified of ladders and asked her if she could prescribe it to me so that I might be able to clean the tops of my cabinets while just standing on my little step stool and perform other such tasks that she probably took for granted. After looking over my medical records, she saw no contra-indications and within 30 minutes I was on my way to the pharmacy to fill the prescription.

The next morning, I carefully measured the prescribed dosage and swallowed it in one gulp, like a shot of flavored vodka. I hadn't read the warnings that accompanied the bottle in pharmacy bag but I felt confident I had nothing to worry about. Surely the NP would have told me if there were side effects so I headed for the shower. Daydreaming about what it would be like to have to raise the shower head, I could feel some tingling throughout my body.

Now that I was squeaky clean, I dried my hair and went to get dressed. I got out my favorite jeans and when I stepped into them I found that I couldn't quite pull them up over my thighs. I dropped them to the floor and ran back to look in the bathroom mirror. There was no question that I was taller although I couldn't estimate by how many inches. The horrifying figure that I saw, however, was also wider!

Naked and barefoot I sprinted to the kitchen to read the side effects and there it was. "DO NOT TAKE WITHOUT FOOD. This medication may cause an increase in height up to 6" but when taken on an empty stomach, it may also cause an equal increase in width." With tears in my eyes I returned to the bedroom, put on an oversized tee shirt and yoga pants and waited for the effects to wear off and wondered what was I thinking? Does my short stature really matter that much to me?

Next time I read an article about new medications in the Wall Street Journal, I'll remember they are referring to stock prices of the pharmaceutical companies, not effectiveness or safety of the drugs.

The Callback

This story was written as a follow up to a previous Friday Flash called The Audition which can be viewed here.
© Susan Cross

The phone rang. Her mother answered and called to her, “It’s the agency, dear.” She couldn’t believe it—she had gotten a call back from her audition! After setting the appointment she went and packed her satchel to head out to the train station.

Before she knew it she was seated comfortably heading for the city. She followed the same rituals as last time, using the toilet, washing her face, pulling her hair back. She wore the same white blouse tucked into straight-legged jeans with her red belt pulled tight accentuating her waist. Truth be told, these were the only clothes she had that didn’t give away her small town origins.

Before she knew it she was walking toward the office and opening the door. There was only one other girl in the small waiting area. She took a seat and shyly struck up a conversation with the other woman. This woman was wearing a suit and looked much older than she was, maybe in her mid 30s.

“Hi. I’m Mary Jane. I’ve never been called back after an audition before,” she said to the stranger.

“Don’t be nervous Mary Jane. I’ve been here many times. I’ve even gotten a few jobs for my troubles. My name is Abigail. Perhaps you’ve seen some of my TV spots although you probably wouldn’t know it if you did.” Abigail laughed at that notion, and then continued. I like your red belt. Do you have lipstick to match?” she asked.

“Well, no. I don’t usually wear makeup. I just focus on my hands, keeping the nails trimmed and lacquered,” Mary Jane replied.

“Well, I think you might look good with some lipstick. You should try it some time. Red would be a good color, sort of like mine. It would make the color in your belt pop, as they say, and perhaps you would be considered for other ads if you got noticed.”

Mary Jane only wore lipstick on special occasions. A local square dance; a movie date with James and occasionally when she and her mother went to a mother-daughter luncheon at the local women’s club. She chose the softer, more delicate shades.

“Mary Jane Tomlinson?” the receptionist said, her voice lilting into a question mark. She had assumed that Abigail would go first since she had been waiting longer. This didn’t seem to disturb Abigail, though. Mary Jane rose and followed the receptionist into a hallway.

She was ushered into a small office and a man invited her to have a seat. There were no family pictures on his desk or walls. The décor consisted of posters for various ad campaigns.

“I’m Mr. Ballinger. I assume you’re Mary Jane?” he said as he reached out his hand and took hers gently. “You really stood out in the audition. Your hands are very special and the way you applied our product was just perfect. I would like to see that again if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Ballinger.” Mary Jane felt her heart beating a little faster. He had noticed her!

Mr. Ballinger had a bottle of the moisturizer on his desk and handed it to her offering her a seat. She sat down.

“I’d like you to put a small pea-size dab on the top of your left hand and rub it across your skin slowly and sensually. Look down at your hand as you’re doing it and make your facial expression match the feel of the lotion.”

Mary Jane did as she was told.

“Now turn your hand over and put a little bit larger dab onto the palm of your hand. Yes, just like that. Look down and rub the lotion liberally on the palms of your hands.”

Mary Jane’s eyes were closed as she felt the warmth of the lotion on her skin. As her eyes opened just a crack she saw that Mr. Ballinger had unzipped his pants. She saw his ‘thing’ standing up high as he moved towards her. She was afraid she was going to be sick.

“I want to feel the lotion now. Are your hands still moist? Place your left hand in my pants under my balls and hold them, not too tight.”

Mary Jane was horrified! What had she gotten herself into? She wanted to run out the door but she also wanted the job.

“Now with your right hand stroke my cock from the bottom to the top and back again. Yes, just like that. Keep moving your hands like that. It feels very good.”

Within a few minutes, she couldn’t maintain her calm disposition and she pulled her hands away. “I’m sorry Mr. Ballinger, but I just can’t do this. I thought you called me back because you liked my audition and I was going to get the job as a hand model. But I can’t do this.”

“Wait Mary Jane. I think you’ve done a wonderful job. If you’re able to come back next week, we can shoot the commercial and possibly some stills for print magazines as well. Would that be alright?”

“I-I guess so. You’re serious? About the job, I mean? You wouldn’t ask me to do this again?”

“No, no. Next week is the photo shoot. You can make the appointment with my receptionist on the way out. Really I was just testing the product and I believe it’s good. Thank you for coming in.”

Mary Jane moved quickly past him to the door and into the reception area. She glanced at Abigail and wondered if she had been asked to do the same thing in order to get her jobs. Maybe Abigail was his girlfriend and had held back that information. She made the appointment and as she turned to leave she asked Abigail what she thought about the hand lotion.

“Hand lotion? I’m here about the lipstick commercial, sweetie. Did you get the job?”

Real

“You’re not my real mother!” he shouted as she took the device out of his hand. “I hate you.”

She took it to the master bedroom and placed it in a drawer remembering a time when those words were like fingers on the video game controller, pushing her buttons and controlling her as if she were one of the characters on the screen.

Mondays were like this, she had learned. After spending a weekend with his birth mom it took him a day to get back into the routine of family life. On weekends there were no rules. No bedtimes. No restrictions. No homework. No chores. But there was also no basketball hoop. No friends. Nobody to play with. Nobody tucking him in at night. Nobody to say prayers with him. From Saturday morning until Sunday night he lived in a different world. His mom was there but she worked at nights and got home very late. She slept during the days.

His favorite food was pizza. Good thing. Every Saturday evening his mom ordered pizza for him. Pepperoni—his favorite. He ate about half of it and put the rest in the fridge for lunch on Sunday. Breakfast was just as good. His mom always bought a dozen Dunkin’ Donuts on her way home from work in the early morning. He got to choose whichever he wanted. Sometimes he ate half a glazed donut and a couple of bites of a chocolate frosted one. If he wanted, he could take a bite out of every one and he still wouldn’t get in trouble.

While his mother slept he watched movie videos. Some of them were R rated. He would not be allowed to watch them at home and he had sworn to his mom that he would keep it a secret. He didn’t like keeping secrets.

One Sunday night he came home and announced that he had earned some money at his mom’s. She let him do some work sweeping floors and helping to clean at her business which she told everyone was a travel agency. He had difficulty repeating the lie and just said, “I earned it cleaning at my mom’s work.”

He didn’t realize that there were no secrets at home. His dad and step-mom never questioned him because they had taught him not to lie. They knew that his mom told him not to tell so they just let him be. As long as he was not there when the business opened they kept their mouths shut. The dancers didn’t arrive until well after he had eaten his pizza back at the apartment and was already watching videos or playing video games. He knew but he didn’t understand. If there was nothing to be ashamed of, why was he sworn to secrecy?

As he got older he realized that he was living in two different worlds. That’s when it began. The confusion. The guilt about lying. The anxiety. But she was his mom. His real mom. The one who had shown him the scar on her belly where the doctors had cut her open so that he could be born. “And don’t you forget that,” she told him. “She didn’t have to be cut open to have you. Remember that. She’s not your real mom. I am.”

Tuesday everything was back to normal. He woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, got dressed for school and poured milk over his cereal while this other woman made his lunch and helped to made sure his backpack was ready. She had helped him with his homework the night before, after she took away the video game controller. His dad got home in time for dinner and they always ate together—the three of them. Dad left early for work, before he got up, but he was always home for dinner. He helped with history and science homework. His step-mom helped with English and math.

He played basketball after school with a friend who lived down the street. They were on a team together but he missed a lot of games that were played on Saturday afternoons. He liked it better when they were morning games and he could play before his mom picked him up.

Wednesday was early day at school. His classes ended an hour early so the teachers could have their staff meeting. He usually went bowling with some kids on a league. That way he would get home about the same time as his step-mom did. He didn’t like being alone in the house even if he was in his room drawing or watching TV. When his dad got home they had some time to throw the baseball before dinner. They were all baseball fans but on weekends there was nobody to watch the games with at his mom’s.

On Thursday he had his favorite class, art. He sketched very well and the teacher praised him. She told him he was talented and should pursue his interest in art. She was his favorite teacher. And Thursday was the best night for TV shows. He, his dad and step-mom all liked to watch Survivor and guess who would be voted off. He secretly giggled when they showed the women in their bikinis. He was at that age.

Friday was a good day. The end of the school week. An evening of relaxation. But by bedtime his mood was already changing. His dad had hugged him and said goodnight but there was sadness in his eyes when his step-mom sat on his bed and said prayers with him.

“What’s the matter, honey? You look so sad,” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“C’mon, you can’t fool me. What are you thinking about?”

“Jody, do I have to go to my mom’s tomorrow? Can’t I stay home just one weekend?”

Hunting, Nesting and Gathering -- #Fridayflash

Their lovemaking was like a choreographed dance, pillows moving to cushion and elevate body parts for maximum pleasure. When they were spent, she nested as he prepared to leave. He left her there surrounded by pillows of varying thicknesses and density, one beneath her head, one behind her as she lay on her side, one between her knees and the last one up against her abdomen which she hugged closely.

He was gone about an hour while she dozed in and out of consciousness. Her peaceful face held the smile of satisfaction and anticipation. She heard the door open then close and she smiled, moving the pillows so that several were behind her back supporting her as she pulled herself up to a sitting position.

Sounds emanated from the kitchen. He entered the bedroom with a bakery box and two forks. She opened the box folding the top backwards to display the delectable reward.

“Ummm, my favorite,” she cooed. “Key lime cheesecake.”

“You see, I remembered,” he said. “I had to go to three different bakeries to find the one with key lime. Apparently white chocolate strawberry cheesecake is more popular right now but I want to get used to your cravings. We’ll be dealing with this for another seven and a half months. Have you started thinking about names yet?”

Nothing had changed in a thousand years. He was the hunter, she was the nester and soon would be gathering things for the nursery.

I am a WINNER!

I have won Tony Noland's contest. (View Tony's blog and listen to his voice here: http://www.tonynoland.com/)

This is very exciting for me. Tony has a beautiful voice and as a prize he will record a reading of one of my stories. My problem is that I am not a very good judge of my own stories. So I am enlisting your help. Please read my flash fiction and help me decide which one would sound best when read aloud. Let's challenge Tony and see what he can do. Type Fridayflash in the search bar to the right to read my stories. Then leave me a comment telling me your favorite. I'll pass it along to Tony and once done, sit back and listen.

Thanks for helping me out! Again, I AM A WINNER! Sorry for repeating myself. I don't often get to say (or type) those words.

The Mask of Invisibility - #Fridayflash

It was an easy question, really. Should she stay in the car or get out and go inside? More questions raced through her head. What kind of mood was he in? Would he be mad at her for being gone so long? Had he eaten or waited for her?

Being away from the house for the day was a pleasant experience. Wandering around stores, talking to salespeople trying to sell her things she didn’t need. She overheard a store manager telling a new employee to "treat each customer as if she were a guest in your home. Put on a smile and welcome her. Offer to help and then show her the new products as if she were a friend stopping in for coffee and you were excited about some new acquisition that brightened your living room." It was an import store specializing in home décor. Even though the manager was male, he referred to the customers—guests as female.

In the bookstore everybody knew her and called her by name. They were the only ones who knew that she was the woman whose picture was on the back cover of a book crammed in between so many other mysteries. Customers just saw an aging woman wearing shorts that should be longer, a tee shirt with a graphic on the back worn so thin from washing that it was impossible to recognize and those wraparound black sunglasses. She always wore those sunglasses, even in the store, like a mask.

Tonight she would be attending a play at the local theater with a friend. Although they were only one year apart in age, her friend would be wearing a long skirt, a ruffled blouse and makeup. She would change her shorts and tee shirt and put on clean ones. Nobody would guess that she was reviewing the play for a magazine.

The writer’s life is an odd one, very different from a musician’s. People don’t recognize writers by their faces, even when they are successful, unless they look like Kurt Vonnegut or Truman Capote. Being anonymous was almost as good as being invisible. It gave her the opportunity to observe people. But when she introduced herself to strangers she often detected a change in demeanor; passed her business card and suddenly she had an identity.

Her decision made, she opened the car door. Rather than go in through the garage alerting him with the sound of the mechanical roll up door, she walked up to the front door, key in hand and inserted it into the slot. She pushed the door open and it was quiet. She called his name. And then he came to her, sniffing her legs to see if she had cheated on him. Of course, she had not. She knew better than to pet any other dog; it would hurt his feelings when she got home.

Brains and skulls and ringing bells

Here's another #Fridayflash story. Please comment and critique. Constructive criticism is always welcome. So are compliments, of course.
JJ’s headache started behind her eyes and spread out sideways and upwards feeling like a swimming cap two sizes too small. Her face didn’t hurt so she concluded that her sinuses were clear. There was a history of headaches in her family but her health had always been great with the exception of the burst appendix last year, and that could happen to anyone. Besides, you only had one appendix and when it bursts and the mess is cleaned up, if you live through it, you never have to worry about it again. A head is a whole lot different than an appendix. You need it every second of every day. If it explodes thinking is no longer a problem.

Every sound was amplified. She lay in darkness in her bed hoping for absolute silence. Then she heard a fire alarm ringing. It stopped. It rang again and stopped. Oh my God, she thought, why is a fire alarm ringing in the house? We have a smoke detector. Each time the alarm rang her pain sent streaks of lighting from one ear around the lower back of her skull to the other ear.

It took four rings before JJ realized it was the telephone on the table next to the bed. Glancing at the clock, she tried to get her voice to sound normal as she picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” From the inside her voice sounded chirpy but the rasp of sleep and pain was not completely hidden.

“Hello, is this Jane,” the voice said.

Without thinking she said, “Yes.” Immediately she wished she had said “Jane’s not available” because in fact, she didn’t feel available for a telephone conversation at the moment.

“Hi Jane. This is Nellie, your neighbor across the back yard and one house over. I’m sorry to bother you but I know I didn’t wake you.”

How could she know that? JJ thought. Although her bladder felt like it would burst, she had fought the sensation and held it so she could finish her dream and then that damned fire alarm—oh no, the phone—started ringing.

“Hi Nellie. What’s up?”

“Your dog has been barking for over an hour. You know I wouldn’t normally complain but Nate woke up with a terrible headache and the sound is driving him crazy. Could you bring her inside and quiet her down?”

“Oh, Nellie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize she was out on the porch barking. It must be the squirrels on the screen. You know how she gets when they stop still and she can’t get to them. I’ll go get her right now. I hope Nate feels better.”

As JJ dragged her body out of bed she reached down and picked up the pair of shorts on the floor and pulled them up over her wide hips. Thank God for elastic waistbands. The throbbing continued but at least the ringing had stopped, she thought. Her footsteps resonated so she carefully shuffled her feet toward the sliding glass door. Indeed, the dog was barking continuously. For a 9 pound dog, Sadie could register high on the decibel ladder but how she was able to keep at it without taking a breath was astounding.

Opening the door, JJ called to her, “Sadie, get in here.” Her own voice was like that of a soccer announcer speaking through a microphone at a World Cup Championship game. The dog looked at her. This time she whispered, “Sadie, you come in here right now.”

Sadie sat on the hard cement floor, looked at JJ and tilted her head staring into JJ’s eyes, trying to understand the language. That’s when JJ remembered something she had seen on TV, the Dog Whisperer. He had made a sound like shushing a baby, but with a p in front of it. JJ tried it.

“Psssssshhhh!” Sadie stared at her, but at least she wasn’t barking anymore.

“Psssssshhh,” JJ repeated. “Come,” she whispered. The dog put her little white fluffy head down and slinked through the doorway silently. She went directly to her crate, stepped inside and laid down on the towel that served as her mattress.

The lack of sound immediately caused the muscles around JJ’s scalp to ease. How long did Nellie say Sadie had been barking? She noticed that her headache had slipped away, perhaps exiting through her ears which was exactly where it had entered.

Then she pondered her decision to install a doggie door in the slider. Whose brilliant idea was that?

Photo Album -- #fridayflash

The photograph is old—black, white and a million shades of grey. The date is written in ballpoint ink on the white frame around the edge of the photo. Apparently that was the way photos were printed back then, with white borders on glossy paper. This good-looking young couple would become parents in about three years but in this picture the glow of newlyweds shines through their eyes.

In the next picture the woman is standing in the doorway holding a baby wrapped in a huge blanket. The bunting covers the entire infant except for the tiny face with narrow eyes and chubby cheeks. Her mouth is a little round dark grey circle. The snow on the ground is on both sides of the steps but the stoop is clear.

On the next page of the small album the man stands next to a smiling little girl on a shiny tricycle. It must be spring time. The grass is a dark grey and the child is wearing a sweater and pants but no coat. The man also wears a sweater with a large diamond pattern on the front. Opposite this one is another picture of the girl in profile with her foot on the pedals of the trike looking toward the woman whose hands are outstretched in a welcoming gesture.

From that page forward, all of the photos include only two people—either the woman and the girl or the man and the girl. Color is introduced in the next pages. The child’s short red hair is highlighted in the sun. It is a little darker than the woman’s long locks. The child is smiling but the woman’s mouth does not look natural. She is posing for the camera.

A story is evolving with each turn of the pages. According to the date on the white border around the photograph the girl is about five years old. She stands next to the woman. They are showing off holiday dresses, looking at the camera. The joy of the season is not evident in their faces.

The child is alone now, sitting on the brown porch steps. In the picture you can see her head resting on her little hands, elbows on knees. She is fatter than in previous shots. Her face is barely visible as she looks down at the steps below her feet.

The final photo in the album is of the smiling woman dressed beautifully. Her red hair is coifed in an upswept style. Her lipstick is a darker shade of red. She poses coquettishly in her fashionable dress and the full shot shows her high heeled shoes with thin straps across the ankles. All of these details are more evident because she is alone. But more disturbingly part of the photograph is missing. The left side was squared off with the white border but the right side of the picture is ragged. The photo has been carefully cut right along the edge of the woman’s silhouette so that the gorgeous, happy expression has been captured but the person who once shared this scene is surgically removed. In the border is written “Patricia’s 30th birthday.”

Peaches - #fridayflash

Alicia thought she recognized him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place him. And then it hit her. The guy always made a spectacle when he arrived at the little blues bar on his Harley. He went through a ritual of dismounting, taking off his helmet, then his leather gloves and making sure his vest hung open just enough to cover his beer gut and minimize its appearance at least at first glance.

He was fondling the peaches in the produce aisle. Alicia thought about how odd it was when she saw someone outside her frame of reference and their persona was shed as they became just another human being. In this case, he wasn’t the macho biker but a man buying groceries. He was intent on choosing the fruit that was not overripe but almost ready to eat. He hadn’t noticed her watching him.

Alicia turned away and picked up a bell pepper, inspecting it for flaws. Then she placed it on the scale. Grocery shopping was part of life. She was a coupon clipper, careful with her money. Working at the book store was her dream job but it paid just above minimum wage. Her job had its benefits the best of which was being able to bring the books home to read as long as she reviewed them for the “staff picks” shelves.

As she tore the plastic bag off the dispenser and placed the pepper in it she almost bumped into him. He looked at her blankly at first and then a glimmer of recognition crept into his eyes. He was trying to remember where he had seen her before.

“Hi,” he said. “I recognize you from somewhere.”

Alicia was just about to respond when he continued talking.

“You work in the book store, don’t you?”

She couldn’t hide her expression of bewilderment. How did she not notice him at the store? She was there 40 hours a week, sometimes more, and yet her mental association had gone directly to the blues bar.

“Yeah. I do,” she said. “I’m Alicia.”

“Nice to meet you Alicia. Name’s Marv. I’ve noticed you there but you always seem so busy. That other lady with the short hair helps me find what I’m looking for most of the time.”

“I’m sorry, Marv. I thought I knew you from someplace else. I didn’t realize it was from the book store,” Alicia said. “I do keep pretty busy there and I don’t normally run the register so I can’t keep track of who’s in and out unless they have a question.”

“Well, you’re not usually in the economics section. I kind of hang out there most of the time. I’m a financial advisor so I try to keep ahead of the trends. I see you around fiction and literature,” Marv said.

“Yeah, I’m a fiction reader so that’s what I know. It’s always better to help people with questions in my area of interest. I wouldn’t know how to recommend an author in economics,” Alicia said. “You know, I thought I had seen you at a blues bar a few weeks ago. Do you have a twin?” She laughed as she said it.

“No twins in the family. That would have been me. I’m a big blues fan. You really go to that bar, too?”

“Yup. I’ve been going there for years. I’m a writer. I like observing people at the bar and I love the music. I love working at the book store. Being around books inspires me. Every time an author debuts her first book it gives me hope that someday people will be handling mine.”

“Wow, that’s really cool. Makes sense to me. Writing and reading go together.”

“Are you going up to see that new band this weekend?” Alicia asked.

“Probably not. My Harley’s in the shop. I’d look stupid driving up to that bar in my Beemer. I’ll wait ‘til I get my bike back. Don’t want to ruin my image.”

“Stop in the book store next week. I’ll let you know if they’re any good.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll stop in. Nice meeting you. I’ve got to get home to feed my dog. Boy does she love peaches.”

Roses are Red—and Yellow—and White

This is my #Fridayflash story for the week of June 15. Comments and constructive criticism are welcome, as always.

Eduardo had been gone for four days this time, a business trip or so he had told Eve when he packed. He walked through the door and smiled thinking it was good to be home. His smile disappeared when he heard her heavy footsteps on the stairs. In her hand, Eve was waving a document. Her red face was screwed up into a snarl. Her pink scalp was showing through her thin, blond hair which was almost standing up from the blood rushing to her brain.

He took a step backward and felt the door behind him. He should have opened it and run back to his car.

“What the hell is this?” Eve wailed. “Flowers?” She was close enough now that he could see it was a Visa bill in her hand. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think I don’t know what you do when you go away on business? How could I not know? You send your whore roses and charge them to my Visa, you asshole! Were they roses?”

Eve had him by about eight inches and almost 50 pounds. He was obviously afraid of her but he could never leave. She owned the house and paid the bills. He had quit his job weeks ago but had failed to mention that to her. Being 12 years younger than Eve, Eduardo felt like a child.

“I’ll bet they were red, too, weren’t they?” she bellowed. It seemed like her face couldn’t get any redder and yet it did. The veins in her neck were bulging with anger.

“White, actually,” he said quietly.

Eve was trembling now. Eduardo was making himself smaller and smaller against the door. She had never struck him and he hoped he would be able to say that again tomorrow but he had never seen her like this.

“She’s just a friend, you know? I don’t love her like I love you. You know that, honey. I could never love anyone like I love you.” He hoped his voice sounded sincere and sorry enough to calm her down—at least a little bit.

“A friend? This one’s a friend? And what about the one last month, is she just a friend, too?”

“No, no, last week I was visiting my cousins in Miami. Really. You know I haven’t seen them in over a month.”

“And who did you send the roses to last month? Your cousin? And what color were they, huh? Go ahead and lie to me one more time, Eduardo, go ahead.”

“Last month?” He hesitated. “Yes, they were for my cousin. She’s getting divorced and she was depressed so I sent her roses to cheer her up.”

“What color?” Eve screamed. She didn’t believe they were for his cousin. He had so many ‘cousins’ that she hadn’t met that she didn’t know if he actually had any family at all.

“Yellow. They were yellow. It wouldn’t have been right for me to send her red. Red is the color for love.”

“You bastard! You send roses to your girlfriends and charge them to my credit card and then make up stories and expect me to believe you. Why did I ever marry you?”

Eve turned and stomped back up the stairs. He heard the bedroom door slam and then the lock engaged. The next sound he heard was crying. Tough as she was, she cried. He had been a bad boy. He had hurt her feelings—again. He smoked cigarettes and drank wine until he fell asleep on the couch.

The next morning he heard Eve make her coffee and pack her lunch. He kept his eyes closed and pretended he was asleep. His head hurt from the wine and he didn’t want another confrontation. He would have all day to recover. Well, until 1 o’clock when he was meeting Noreen in the park for a picnic. He would just go by the grocery store and buy a bunch of pre-packaged flowers and pay cash. He hadn’t sent her roses yet.

At work, Eve attended the early morning staff meeting. She wore her usual scowl. Nobody at the office had ever seen her smile. She was always mad at something or somebody. When she got back to her desk the little red light on her phone was blinking. She had a voicemail message waiting. She picked up the phone and heard the receptionist’s voice. “Hello Eve. This is Donna in the reception area. Please come up here when you get this message. Thanks.”

What on earth could Donna want? Eve walked toward the elevator. As the elevator slowly moved from the first floor to the second, she watched people walking in the corridors through the glass. The sudden stop startled her back to reality. The door slid open and she stepped out heading deliberately toward the reception desk. On the desk she saw the vase holding a dozen red roses with ferns and baby’s breath. They were beautiful!

“What’s the special occasion?” Donna asked.

Eve’s cheeks were pink. She was blushing. “No special occasion,” she said.

The flowers were heavier than she expected so she used both hands to hold the vase and carry them back to her desk. It was lunch time. She took out her pink insulated lunch bag and ate her sandwich. By the time she was done with her apple it was 1 o’clock. She picked up the phone and called the house. It rang four times before the answering machine came on. “Eduardo and Eve are not home right now. Please leave a message and we’ll return your call. Have a nice day.” She waited for the beep.

“Eduardo? Sweetie? Are you there? I called to tell you that they’re beautiful. I can’t wait to get home.”

Blue Sweater - #Fridayflash

Here is my Mother's Day story for #Fridayflash (check it out on Twitter). Please comment and/or critique as you see fit.


“I can’t find my blue sweater,” Addy whined from her bedroom. Addy had that frustrated look on her face that is so common with tweens—you know, the ‘whatever’ generation. Her mother was preparing lunches downstairs for Addy and her brother and looked up with a half smile on her face. She recognized the tone of her daughter’s voice.

“Have you looked in your closet?” she yelled to her daughter.

“Of course I looked in my closet. What are you making me for lunch? Oh no, not peanut butter and bananas again. My friends all bring things like ham and cheese and they think I’m poor because you keep giving me peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”

It was obvious that her mother didn’t understand what being a 12 year old girl was like these days.

“What did you do with my sweater, Mom?”

“Did you look in your middle drawer? Why not look in all your drawers. Maybe I just put it in the wrong drawer after I did the laundry.”

That would be just like her mother, Addy thought, putting her sweater in the wrong place.

“No, it’s not in any of my drawers. I wanted to wear that sweater today. It’s my favorite. I’ve looked everywhere. What did you do with it?”

“Addy, what can I do to you if I come upstairs and find that sweater in your room? Hmmm?”

Silence.

“Can I ground you for the weekend?”

Silence.

“Can I spank you?”

Silence.

“Can I take away your cell phone for a week?”

Finally, Addy couldn’t stand it anymore. She knew her mother wouldn’t find it in her room so she yelled, “Yes! Yes! Yes! You can do all of those things. But you’ll never find it because it’s not There.”

Mom finished packing the lunches and walked up the stairs and stood in Addy’s doorway. Her daughter sat on the bed in her bra and jeans sulking.

“It’s lost!” she said.

Mom walked over to Addy’s closet. The floor was covered with clothes, some clean and some dirty. Bending over the pile, her mother lifted a pair of rejected jeans out of the stack. Under those there was a tee shirt with a peace symbol on it and spread out beneath that was a nightshirt.

“See? I told you it was lost,” Addy whined.

And then her mother picked up the nightshirt and there it was—the blue sweater. Without a word she picked up the sweater and smelled the armpits. It hadn’t been worn since she had washed it. She put it on the bed, smoothed it out while Addy looked on in amazement.

“You found it!” she wailed. “Oh mom, thank you!” she said as she slipped the sweater over her head.

“Turn around,” her mother said.

“What?”

“Turn around.”

“Why?” Addy said as she started to turn.

“Because I’m going to spank you, and then take away your cell phone and, by the way you’re grounded for the weekend.”

Addy’s face froze. “My cell phone? Grounded for the weekend? Go ahead and spank me but don’t take away my cell phone!” Panic had overcome Addy’s 12 year old face.

“Say please,” her mother said.

“Please, mom, please?”

“Okay, Addy. You’re blue sweater looks nice but you should take better care of your things. Go downstairs and get your lunch. You’re going to miss the bus.”

In a flash Addy was down the stairs leaving her mother standing there smiling. As she ran out the door her mother heard her say quietly, “I love you, mom.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Addy knew.

© Susan Cross May 2010

Ida'sTea Party - #Fridayflash, comments welcome

Ida was one of those 81 year old ladies who still dusted every day, especially her little hutch filled with fine china. There was a TV on top of it now but she still used the glass cabinet for her dishes. She had been single for about a year living in a studio apartment in the senior citizens building on church property. Widowed, that is. For the fourth time. Even now Ida had a new boyfriend. She swore she would not marry again because her four husbands had been fairly well off and her new boyfriend was not. It wasn’t easy to find men when you were 81 so now that she found one that was single, aware and ambulatory she wasn’t going to complain.

Playing bridge and lunching with ladies were her favorite pastimes. She tried to fit in an occasional meal with a granddaughter but she didn’t like cooking and wasn’t really a family oriented woman. Her daughters had married beneath them so she wasn’t anxious to have their children and grandchildren in her home messing up the dining room table with crayons or eating sticky jelly sandwiches.

Ida didn’t watch the news on television. She said it was too depressing to see what all those awful people and crazy politicians were doing to her country. Her son had served in World War II to fight for freedom. Twenty years later the hippies had taken over and twenty years after that, women were going to work even if they didn’t have to; teenagers were having babies that were being raised by their grandparents. Not Ida. She would have no part of that world.

Over lunch one day, her friend Catherine mentioned that she had heard about tea parties on the news. Ida was delighted. She hadn’t had a tea party in years. Her friends spent too much time with their families and besides, when she had nothing better to do, she would call Joseph and invite him over to watch an old movie on TV. Neither one of them could drive anymore so they didn’t go out much.

Ida called her daughter Marilyn and asked her to bring her a box of invitations from the Hallmark store. The next day, she filled them out, stamped them and put them in the mailbox in the lobby. Although they were all going to people who lived in her building it would be rude to just deliver them to the mailboxes without going through the post.

As she expected, three ladies out of six R.S.V.P.’d using the cards enclosed with the invitations. Her mother always taught her to invite twice as many people to a party as you wanted because only half would attend anyway.

She prepared the small table with white doilies and her china tea set. Marilyn had fulfilled her request to bring a box of crumpets from the bakery a block away. She set one on each cake plate next to the tea cups. One by one her friends started arriving dressed in their Sunday best. The table was no bigger than a bridge table.

Melanie was curious and asked Ida, “What is the occasion?”

“Well, I heard someone talking in the dining room a couple of weeks ago about the tea parties. I was so happy to hear that they had come back into fashion I thought I’d be the first in the building to have one!”

Beware the Tigress

Elan Woods was recently seen on a street in Sweden. Although the scarf and sunglasses implied that she was trying to travel incognito, it was obvious to this photographer that, in fact, it was Mrs. Woods. In an attempt to get the exclusive, he stood in the shadows of a doorway waiting to see why she was standing there looking around. Suddenly her head turned as she heard a car coming around the corner from the direction opposite of where she had been staring.

Her smile broadened. The photographer was clicking capturing every move she made.

The car pulled up to the curb in front of her. She waited. The driver stepped out, pulled her close and kissed her passionately. He then helped her into the car and closed the door, circling the car to get in beside her.

"Do you think anyone saw you? The street looked pretty deserted," he said.

"I don't think so unless they were looking out a window," she replied. "Even so, I don't think anyone would recognize me in this part of town."

"Did you send out the checks? That was a brilliant idea," he said, laughing. "I've missed you so much. How are the children? I can't wait to see them. The photos I've seen of the island in the news look spectacular."

"Oh, wait 'til you see it. It's like heaven on earth. By the way, I'm glad to see that your face has healed. The surgeon did a great job. I'm sorry I hit you so hard."

"We'll finally get to spend some time together as a family. Away from the cameras, away from the tour. As for losing the endorsements, who cares? After all, when it comes to money, how much is enough? When I'm ready to go back out, I'll do an interview with Oprah or Barbara Walters and then hit the tour again. In the meanwhile, I'll just keep practicing on the private course we bought over here."

"Meanwhile, I'll keep hiring the wanna-be actors to be seen at sex rehab centers all over the US and then in other parts of the world. That will keep the media happy for awhile."

He put the car in gear and drove away.

The photographer was so excited that he almost dropped his camera as he put it in the case. He ran around the corner, jumped in his car and sped home to his computer to upload the images. The bidding would now begin.

Nice shirt

“Nice shirt,” Marsha said to the man next to her in the terminal. “Is it a designer?”

“J.C. Penney,” Carl answered with a chuckle.

“Really? I never shop there. Did you get it in the city?” she asked.

“At the mall. I live out in western Pennsylvania,” he said, “near a big mall. I fly in once a week to meet with the execs.”

“Can you believe I’ve never been to a mall? I live in Manhattan and shop mostly on Fifth Avenue,” Marsha told Carl. “I’ve seen clips of them on TV and they look dreadful to me. I can’t imagine being closed into a little city full of stores. What’s the fun? No pretzel vendors and all.”

“Well, they have a food court. They have a pretzel place there called Auntie Ann’s and those pretzels are sinful! Not like the thick ones you get from the street vendors in the city but delicious just the same.”

“A food court?” Marsha exclaimed. “What on earth is that?”

“A kind of courtyard full of tables surrounded by different fast food counters. They’ve got a pizza place, a McDonalds, Chick Fil-A, Subway, Taco Bell. Oh and I think they have a Cajun joint, too. Plus there are ice cream and dessert counters,” Carl explained.

“Why would you put all those in one place?” Marsha asked with astonishment. Bizarre as it sounded to him, her question was sincere so Carl smiled.

“Consider this,” he said. “On a Saturday, you go to the mall with the family. Your kids need shoes, your wife wants to look at jewelry, I need this shirt, for instance, or whatever. Everyone gets in the car and we go to the mall. We wander around in the climate controlled environment with skylights in the ceiling that let the natural light shine through.”

“You’re kidding! They have skylights at the mall?” Marsha asked.

“Yup. We shop a little and then go to the food court and the kids can get pizza or a Happy Meal and my wife can get gourmet coffee and I can get a sub. We all sit down together with our different food and eat while we watch children playing on a huge slide surrounded by the tables. It’s kind of a family outing but we don’t all have to eat the same food. They have a multiplex, there, too.”

“What’s a multiplex?”

“You’ve never heard of a multiplex? It’s a movie theater – well it’s a bunch of movie theaters all in one place with different movies playing in them. They have stadium seating so you don’t have to worry about some guy with a big head sitting in front of you and blocking your view like in Seinfeld,” Carl explained. “We can all see the same movie together or the kids can watch a G-rated movie while my wife and I go and watch something a little more, uh, mature.”

“I can’t picture it. No cars, no weather. No hoards of people rushing down the sidewalks. No skateboards or bicycles. They don’t allow bicycles or skateboards, I imagine?” Marsha asked.

“Oh no,” Carl laughed. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s a leisurely environment and you don’t have to worry about rain or being cold in the winter or hot in the summer. It’s life in the suburbs.”

“I’ve been in the city all my life. Lived there since I was a kid, Marsha told Carl. “Took subways and buses everywhere. I don’t even know how to drive.” I’ve actually never been out of New York except to the other boroughs. I can’t imagine not being able to run into a Broadway show on a Saturday afternoon if I have the time and the two-fer window has tickets.”

“What’s a two-fer window?” Carl asked.

“It’s a little booth at Times Square where you can buy tickets to Broadway shows at the last minute if they’re not sold out. You can get two tickets for the price of one. And there are so many movie theaters that you can see movies dating back to, oh, I don’t know when, right up to the new releases. Well, you said you watch Seinfeld, so you know what I’m talking about.”

“I can’t imagine raising kids there. It just seems so, so, I don’t know, closed in,” Carl said. “By the way, if you’ve never been out of the city, what are you doing in the terminal? Where are you headed today?”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. Just waiting for a friend who’s coming in from Chicago. To me, that’s like a little city. Sort of like a suburb but I don’t know if they have malls there.”

Can I Get you a Drink?

The couple walked into the hotel lounge and sat down at the bar. It was mid-afternoon so the room was empty. The bartender was dressed appropriately for a 5-star resort. He approached quickly.

“How are you folks today? What can I get for you?” he asked.

Sophie ordered Diet Coke.

“Glenlivet on the rocks with a glass of water on the side,” her husband Richard said.

“Excellent,” said the bartender, showing his approval of the single malt scotch. “Where are you folks from?”

“We live about an hour from here. We were in the hotel for an event at the convention center and thought we would explore a little,” Sophie said. “Are you a native Floridian?” she asked.

“Oh, no. I’m from Jersey. I’ve been down here for a few years.”

“How do you like it here? I’ll bet you never want to go back to the cold weather,” Richard said after a sip of Glenlivet. “There’s a blizzard going on up there right now.”

“Actually, I miss it. The weather is nice but Florida is no place to raise children. I mean, the education system is terrible. If I had kids here I’d have to send them to private schools.”

“Some counties in the area put an emphasis on education. It depends on where you live. Whereabouts in Jersey are you from?” Richard asked.

“South Jersey. That’s why I don’t have a Jersey accent. There aren’t a lot of Italians in the southern part of the state so we don’t have accents.”

“Italians are all up north? Really? I’m not sure I understand. You mean you can tell if someone is Italian based on whether or not they have a New Jersey accent?” Sophie asked, amused. She hadn’t disclosed the fact that she, too, was from New Jersey, and she, too, had no Jersey accent.

“Definitely,” the bartender responded with authority. “The Italians all live in North Jersey and they have those heavy accents. You know, like in the Sopranos.”

“Actually, I’m from North Jersey,” Sophie said, “and I don’t have an accent. I never had one. Of course, I’m not Italian, but I grew up in an Italian neighborhood.”

“I guess you didn’t socialize with them much. Besides, it’s just the way they talk. They can’t help it.”

At this remark, Sophie could not believe that this young man could be so ignorant but she played along a little further to see just how far this would go. Richard sat quietly, listening to the exchange, enjoying his drink. He felt a little sorry for the young bartender, knowing that Sophie was laying a trap.

“When I was growing up, I had friends with all kinds of backgrounds,” she said. “I had a girlfriend who was Polish, one that was German, one that was English and of course, some Italians. The only difference it made to me was that I knew what kind of food I’d be eating if I went to dinner at a friend’s house. Usually the food was very ethnic. That was cool. Other than that, I never really thought about who had accents and who didn’t.”

“Well, you probably just didn’t notice,” said the bartender. “Where I grew up it was different.
I’m an Irish Catholic, born and raised in a little town in South Jersey. Went to Sacred Heart Elementary, St. Mary’s Junior High and Holy Sacrament High School.”

“So you went to all private schools growing up?” Sophie asked, placing the cheese in the little metal box.

“Yup,” he answered, apparently missing the irony of this after criticizing the school system in Florida.

“The Irish don’t talk like that. You know the stereotypes. The Irish are known as drinkers and fighters. The Italians are known for their mob connections and their accents,” he said. “Not that I’m a fighter or anything.”

“So what are Russian Jews like?” Sophie asked, thinking back to her grandparents.

“Russian Jews? I don’t know. I never met any in New Jersey. I think they live mostly in in New York. Maybe Queens, or something.” Although the bartender had boasted about his private school education, apparently he had a very narrow view of the world.

“So you plan to go back up north?” Sophie asked.

“By the time I’m 30 I’ll be back in South Jersey for sure. By then I’ll be ready to settle down and raise a family.”

“Be careful when you say that. Things change. You’re young. There’s no way of predicting what will happen tomorrow,” she said.

“You mean I might meet a girl here and fall in love? No, that’ll never happen. Girls down here are all fluff. I would never marry a southern girl,” he said. “I mean, I know a lot of girls come here from up north so I guess it’s possible I could meet one while I’m here but she’d have to want to go back to Jersey to get married or I wouldn’t date her.”

The woman finished her soda. The man finished his scotch.

“Can I get you another round?” the bartender asked.

“No, thanks. We’ve got to get going. Just a tab,” Richard said. He smiled at his wife while the bartender’s back was turned. He paid the bill, adding a little extra to cover the entertaining conversation.

The couple got up and walked toward the lobby. Richard took out the valet ticket as they approached the automatic doors.

“You can’t make this stuff up,” Sophie said, laughing. “Hard to believe that he got through an interview with a 5-star hotel like this one. He must have interviewed with an Irish Catholic from South Jersey.”

Shuffle up and deal #Fridayflash

Marianne put on her gauzy, colorful peasant blouse and long billowing skirt. She reached into the drawer and pulled out a purple scarf that complemented the colors in her blouse. She wrapped the scarf loosely around her neck in an effort to cover the folds that women of a certain age refer to using a term describing a part of the bird commonly served on Thanksgiving. She opened the large jewelry box that her grandmother had bought her for her 21st birthday. She selected a pair of large hoop earrings and several strands of beads in varying lengths and put them on.

In the bathroom, she sat down on the edge of the bathtub facing the vanity and pushed the switch causing the frame of the magnifying mirror to light up. A small gold colored basket held her make-up. She brushed some dark pink blush on the apple of each cheek before carefully applying black liner to her upper and lower eyelids and several coats of mascara to her lashes. She reached for the tube of deep mauve lipstick and colored her lips, smacking them a couple of times. A glance in the mirror reflected a gypsy woman.

It was time to go to work. She got into her son’s battered Volkswagen and backed out of the garage of her suburban home. She only used this vehicle to drive back and forth to work. The Maxima stayed in the garage for now.

At the downtown section of this bedroom community she drove into a driveway and parked on the grass behind a tiny house. There was enough room for two other cars.

Marianne unlocked the back door and entered the house into the kitchen. She immediately put the teapot on the stove. Then she pushed aside the curtain separating the front room from the kitchen and kicked off her red shoes. They landed perfectly – one standing up and the other lying next to it. Even though it was a sunny day, she lit scented candles to set the mood. Everything was ready, so she walked around the little table to the front door and flipped the sign over from “Closed” to “Open.” Above the door was one word painted on a piece of wood: READINGS.

The kettle was whistling. Marianne walked back to the kitchen and put an aromatic teabag in a china cup. As she poured the water and rested the cup on the saucer she heard bells jingling as the front door opened. Returning to the candlelit room, Marianne saw a young woman standing tentatively inside the door.

“I made you a cup of tea,” she said to the stranger.

“How did you know…I’d be coming in?” the woman said.

Marianne smiled cryptically.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable and have a sip of tea.”

The stranger sat down with her back to the door and Marianne sat opposite her. On the table was an unadorned wooden box. Marianne tapped it three times before opening it. Looking down, as if she didn’t know what she’d find inside, she hesitated. Then she took out the deck of Tarot cards.

“Relax,” she told the stranger. “I know you’ve never done this before but I’m glad you decided to come today. It’s the perfect day for your first reading.”

The woman put down the teacup and Marianne handed her the cards.

“Shuffle them three times,” she said, “and then put them on the table.”

The woman looked frightened but she picked up the cards and did as she was told.

Marianne tapped the deck three times and picked it up. She started arranging the cards face down in a circle on the table. Then slowly, one by one, she turned them face up, starting at the top and working her way around the in a counterclockwise direction.

“I’m Marianne. What’s your name?” she asked.

“Eleanor.”

“Eleanor, something’s troubling you. According to the cards, you’re having a problem relating to a job. Have you recently left your job?”

“Yes. I was laid off last week,” she said.

“Ah, and I see you are worried about how you’re going to pay the bills.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said Eleanor.

“You see this card here? The five of coins? That tells me that you have lost one job but another will turn up quickly. It won’t pay as much but you’ll like it better.”

“Really?” Eleanor asked hopefully.

“Yes. The card to the right is the Queen of Hearts. That means that your new job will bring you a new relationship that will affect your life in a positive way. A new friend,” Marianne told her.

The reading lasted about 15 minutes. Eleanor finished her tea and was smiling when Marianne gathered the cards up and put them back into the box. Eleanor opened her purse and took out two bills, a twenty and a five. She was glad she had come in. She wondered what she would be doing at her new job. She thanked Marianne, stood up and left.

Marianne had grown up thinking that her grandmother had special powers that gave her the ability to read cards. Otherwise, how could she be so accurate?

“Nobody comes to a reader when everything is going well,” her grandmother had explained. “People come when they are worried or depressed. The goal of the reader is to send them out feeling better than when they came in. You simply use common sense.”

Marianne reflected upon how easy it was for her to make people happy. She, too, had been laid off due to the recession. She had to think outside the box in order to find a way to pay her mortgage. Two weeks ago, she had searched in a drawer for the Tarot cards and got creative. She had never done readings but her grandmother’s words had not been lost on her.

Out for a beer - #fridayflash

“But man, how are you going to make it work? You’ve been with her for a few weeks and she thinks she’s in love with you,” the bartender said.

“I’m just told her that I was just going out for a beer. Now I’m going to have her old boyfriend, Steve, call her. She’ll realize how much she misses him and I’ll be off the hook,” Doug told him.

“Didn’t they have a really bad break-up?”

“Yeah, so once I found out they had split, I kind of moved in to comfort her and that’s how we got together.”

“Won't he hold that against you? If you call him isn’t he going to be really pissed at you?”

“Nah. They were made for each other. They just needed a break. I could tell when she cozied up to me so fast that her heart wasn’t in it. She just needed a shoulder to cry on. Besides, she was hoping Steve would find out and be jealous and come running back.”

“I heard he’s the jealous type. I mean, if you call him he might want to kill you or something. I saw him get into a brawl here once. The bouncer had to break it up.”

“I'm not worried. He met this gorgeous blond and couldn’t keep it in his pants so he was a pretty happy dude. That’s why he and Deb broke up. Turned out the new girl was just having some fun with him and moved on to the next guy after a couple of weeks. Then he realized how much he missed Debbie.”

“How can you be so sure this is gonna work?”

“Trust me. It’ll work. He knows he blew it and thinks she’ll never take him back. When I tell him that she’s miserable, he’ll call.”

He dialed the phone. “Steve? How’re things going with you and your new chick? I heard she’s really hot.”

“Man, she is really hot, but not for me. Not anymore. I can’t believe that bitch seduced me like that and broke up my engagement and then dumped me. Boy do I miss Deb.”

“I’ll bet. You two seemed like you were made for each other. But how could you let yourself be tempted so easily if you’re so in love? The old hormones kick in?”

“Yeah. That was part of it. I think I got cold feet. You know, with the engagement and everything. Suddenly it became so real. I wasn’t sure I was ready. That blond girl was my easy way out and I took it.”

“If it was so easy, how do you know it won’t happen again? I mean, if you and Deb got back together and some other hottie came on to you the way that blond did? Do you really think you could resist? I’m not so sure I could.”

“First place, Deb would never take me back after what happened. But if she did I would never do that again. Now I realize how much I love Debbie. And you have no idea how hot she is in the bedroom. I know she looks like little Debbie Homemaker but that’s part of the fun. In the kitchen she wears her little apron when she’s cooking but in the bedroom she wears only that little apron and really gets cookin’!”

Hmmm, he thought. She never put that apron on for me -- not in the kitchen or the bedroom. Maybe I should just leave this beer and go back to her place, he thought. If I stay with her a little longer she might show me what she’s really got going on. We’ve only been together a few weeks.

“Wow, Steve. Too bad you blew it. Sounds like you two had a great thing going. After what you did, you’re probably right. She’d never take you back. Chicks can be funny that way. Once you do them wrong they never forgive you. It’s always in the back of their minds that you might do it again. Even if you did get back together, you could go through a lifetime of marriage and every time you went out for a beer she’d wonder. I’m really sorry things worked out this way. Sometimes, ya don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.

After he got off the phone, he clugged what was left in his glass and went back to the apartment. Deb was lounging on the sofa watching TV. He wondered how long it would take ‘til she recovered from her break up and started wearing that apron.

Daisy, Daisy - #Fridayflash

Using her key, Sarah opened the front door and entered the living room. Softball practice had been cancelled because of bad weather and her girlfriend’s mom had dropped her off. As a result, she was home earlier than expected.

Her father, Joe, must have heard her come in. The doors to all the rooms were closed out of habit since they had gotten the puppy. She was surprised that little Daisy didn’t come running as she entered the house. When Sarah didn’t see anyone in the living room she reached for the door to her father’s bedroom. Before her hand made contact the bathroom door opened and her dad stepped out.

“Don’t open that door,” her father said firmly. Sarah pulled back her hand and looked blankly at him. He had not spoken in a loud or threatening voice. He was a gentle man and his voice had always matched his demeanor.

Joe was dressed in his usual paint-covered jeans. He spent his days off painting. Not walls but portraits or landscapes. Occasionally he would attempt to paint a vase with flowers or another still-life object but his preference was to portray life with his tiny, impressionistic brushstrokes. Life represented the opposite of death and death was a subject he wanted to keep buried deeply.

Then Sarah heard Daisy whining. She looked toward the kitchen and saw that the gate was up. Daisy kept leaping but was too small to jump over. Sarah grabbed the leash off the front door knob and walked toward the kitchen.

In the instant that her back was turned, Joe slipped back into his bedroom. He emerged shortly thereafter, quickly closing the door behind him. Sarah looked at him while Daisy licked her fingers hoping to find some taste or scent that would stimulate her senses.

“What’s going on, Dad? Are you working on a new painting?” Sarah asked.

Without waiting for him to answer she said, “This gate is great. We should have gotten it sooner.”

Joe looked distracted. Then he responded to Sarah’s comment, “You’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it when we first got her.” He had ignored her first question.

Sarah heard a sound coming from her father’s bedroom. The door opened. As if it were perfectly normal, Sal, the man from down the street came out. He was tall and skinny and walked more like her mother had when she was alive than her father. His hips swayed reminding her of a model on a TV commercial selling jeans. Although two years had passed, every detail of her mother’s movements still lived in Sarah’s vivid memory.

Sarah remembered laughing at how much Sal resembled her mother. Sal was a natural brunette. Her mom told her that she had mousy brown hair until Sal dyed it to a rich color similar to his. Sal was a hairdresser and her mother starting letting him fix her hair. Occasionally he commented on her mother’s clothing and she would take his advice and buy a blouse similar to a shirt he wore saying it went well with their shared hair color. Sarah used to tease them about looking like twins although her mother’s body was shapely, not angular like Sal’s.

Sal had been her father’s friend when he met her mom. The three of them used to watch old movies together sometimes. Her mother used to tell her about it and how she wished she had more time alone with her dad, but she didn’t want to be the kind of wife that broke up a friendship.

Sarah was startled out of her daydreams by Sal’s voice. “I really should get going,” he said, glancing at Joe. He greeted Sarah with a friendly smile as he always had before. She thought his lips appeared to be just a little darker than usual – almost red.

Sal was wearing slacks and a long-sleeved salmon colored shirt. Sarah’s mother used to have a blouse that color. Joe loved seeing his wife in that blouse. Sarah was suddenly uncomfortable when she realized how much Sal reminded her of her mom.

To escape the situation, she stepped to the kitchen and opened the gate. Daisy came rushing out. The puppy ran straight to Sal, her little black nose sniffing at the cuffs of his pants. Sarah’s eyes followed the puppy’s movements. That’s when she noticed it. Sal was wearing pantyhose, or stockings or some kind of women’s knee-highs.

“Get down, Daisy,” he said firmly. “No. No!”

Sarah turned to her father. He looked down at Sal’s ankles and the muscles of his forehead creased. His eyes opened wider as he realized what Sarah had seen.

“I’m taking Daisy for a walk,” she said and walked out the door. It was confusing. Why was her father in his bedroom with Sal and why was Sal dressed to look like her mother? Her dad had loved her mom. None of this made sense. She couldn’t get her father’s expression out of her mind when he saw her looking at Sal’s ankles.

As Daisy pulled Sarah along a smile spread across her face. Her parents were married less than a year before she was born. Her dad worked long hours and no longer had time for painting and he missed it.

It seemed so obvious to Sarah now. He had never had a chance to paint her mother’s portrait and that’s why Sal was dressed like that, wearing her mother’s blouse and lipstick, with stockings on his feet. Dad was just missing mom, too. He was using Sal as his model. Sarah felt like she had solved a giant jigsaw puzzle.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Sarah said when she got home. “I understand.”

Three points for the Devil -- #fridayflash

Wednesday Elaine met Don at the bar after work. She ordered club soda. Don raised his eyebrow. Don ordered Scotch on the rocks.

“No wine, tonight?” he asked.

“Not tonight.” Should she tell him now or wait until he finished his drink? She was watching him closely, sipping his Scotch, wondering how he would react.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, drawing him back into the moment. He stared at her.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I wanted to be sure. I’m definitely pregnant.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“No.”

“I don’t know what to say. You knew from the beginning that I am committed to my marriage.”

“I’m still digesting it myself,” she said.

That night, Don couldn’t sleep. He was the Director of Human Resources. My God, he thought. What was I thinking? The scenarios kept playing out in his head. Would she expose the affair? Call his wife? Sue him for sexual harassment? Extort him for a payoff or child support? How well did he really know her? She was the same age as his wife, but she wore makeup and long hair, worked out and strutted around in high heels. How did she walk in those things?

There were no illusions about love between them. Elaine had been dating George, the Manager of the Sales Department, too. George was single.

Don went downstairs to his office. He sat at his desk and looked at the clock. It was just before two. He called George.

“George? This is Don,” he said. “Sorry to wake you but we need to talk.”

George sat up in bed. This must be serious, he thought.

“I know you and Elaine have been dating,” Don said. “I don’t know how to tell you this but I’ve been seeing her on the side. You get the picture. I mean, you’re dating other women, too, right?”

“But Don, you and Cathy, I thought you were happy,” George said. He was trying to picture Elaine in bed with Don. The image didn’t please him.

“There’s a situation,” Don said, cryptically. “Maybe we can help each other out.”

“What are you talking about?” George walked to the kitchen.

“Elaine’s pregnant. She told me tonight. I’m in a really bad position here. I could lose everything,” Don said. He sounded hoarse. “If my wife finds out I don’t know what she’ll do. Besides, I could lose my job. I mean, I’m the Director of HR!”

“Why are you telling me this, Don?”

“Well, I’ve been lying in bed trying to figure out what to do. I had an idea. There’s that Director of Marketing position open. I know you were hoping to be on the short list.”

George listened in disbelief. Other managers were in line who had been with the company longer. He was the youngest of the bunch and didn’t expect to be considered.

“I can make it happen, George. I make the ultimate decision in these things. How bad do you want the job? I could bump the salary up quite a bit.”

“It’s the middle of the night for God’s sake. What are you saying?”

“I want you to propose to Elaine,” Don said hesitantly.

“You what?” George gasped. “But I don’t love her and I’m not ready to get married.”

“I need you to do this,” Don said with hysteria in his voice. “If you propose and tell her you’re in line for a promotion, she’ll marry you. She’s been stalking all the executives, looking for a potential husband that could give her the life she wants. Obviously, I can’t do that.”

“You want me to marry her?” George said, stunned. “How pregnant is she?”

“A couple of months. If you propose to her right away I know she’d elope because of the pregnancy. I’d have you promoted within three months and you could buy that house you’ve been looking at.”

“Don, are you thinking clearly? Do you understand what you’re saying here?”

“This could work out best for everybody. You’d get your promotion plus a great piece of tail and I’d be able to keep my job, my family, my house. Help me out here, George. Please. I’m begging you.”

“Let me think this through tonight. Let’s have lunch tomorrow,” George said.

Six months later Randy was born. George thought he had Don’s eyes but nobody noticed. Elaine loved the house and status of being married to a Director. George loved his new home and his job which required a lot of travel.

The Devil had acquired three new souls in the transaction. George, Elaine and Don never considered that. They went to church on Sundays and life was good.

The Sneeze

At around 9:00 o’clock in the morning I was sitting in my car, on Park Avenue across from the Amtrak parking lot listening to B.B. King sing a duet with Roger Daltrey, the vocalist of The Who.

Between the prestigious college campus and the Morse Museum, Park Avenue was lined with shops and cafes on one side of the street. Across from the upscale boutiques and eateries was the park itself. Large oak trees shaded several blocks of open space. There were benches under some of the trees. The grass of the park was freshly mowed and the bushes of bright red pentas were in full bloom.

I watched as people made use of the parallel parking skills they learned in high school. They maneuvered their cars between the evenly spaced white lines, which became more difficult as the parking spots filled up. In this situation, the compulsion to arrive early paid off. Hungry parking meters lined the sidewalk waiting to eat coins. Those feeding them were literally buying time.

“One hour parking between 9 AM and 6 PM.” Red words painted on white signs.

I heard the clicking of heels and looked in my rearview mirror. The woman carried a large, scarlet leather satchel which matched her pumps. Her heart shaped face was framed with black hair that curved in toward her chin, accentuating perfectly painted red lips. Shoulders back, head erect, she was rushing down the sidewalk as if it were a fashion runway.

Instinct told me that she was late to work. Distracted, she didn’t notice my car or hear the music emanating from it.

She was almost even with my window when she stopped suddenly and sneezed. Then again. And again. She had tried to stifle the first sneeze but the second and third one could not be held back.

“God bless you,” I said, through the open window of my car.

She turned and stared at me silently for a moment. The impression was that of a manikin that had become human against her will.

“Thank you,” she said. In one fluid motion she leaned her head down pushing her hand into her red bag and pulling out a tissue just before another sneeze contorted her face. I watched to see how such a carefully put-together woman could blow her nose without messing her makeup. She dabbed at her nose with the tissue trying not to smudge the outline of lipstick. I looked away.

When I looked back, she had turned and was crossing the railroad tracks. She approached the Amtrak station’s ticket window and, once again, reached into her satchel retrieving a wallet. A transaction took place.

Within minutes I heard the horn and then the clacking of the train as it slowed to a full stop in front of the small station. The woman turned away from the building. She walked stiffly to the second car of the train and boarded.

A man had stepped off the train carrying a guitar case. Moments later, he saw my car, crossed the tracks, leaned into the window and kissed me.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. We kissed again.

“Get in,” I said. “Let’s go home.”