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I Guess?This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Shoosh Russelcrust | |
| Tuesday, 26 February 2008 | |
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Share it:      “I don’t know.” He looked down at his shoes, then the waitress circling the restaurant like a vulture, back at his shoes, then at the menu. How am I going to get. “I don’t know either," he said. That ass. The silence was grim. “What did you order again?” “Spaghetti,” she said. A bus boy slowly stacked plates, glasses, forks, and knives into a basin he carried to the abandoned tables. At the peak of the dinner rush, he moved quickly. Now he moved like he was being paid by the hour. Three glasses wobbled on the tower of the plates overflowing from the basin. The bus boy tilted the basin and the glasses slid towards him. He balanced them against his stomach, “Big spaghetti fan, huh?” ****. In dimensions he couldn’t see yet, they were both rolling their eyes and calling a separate cab home. “Um," she juggled her wallet in her purse. "Well. Yeah, I guess.” She had ugly gray eyes. They weren’t cold as much as they were distant, which made him feel even worse. “Oh,” he said. “Eaten here before?” “No.” Defeated, again. The light conversation buried itself next to the others. They were seated in the corner of two walls lined with red booths and white tablecloths. A picture, the owner would call them paintings, hung over each table in a pseudo-elegant frame, with plastic ivy drooping from the frame. It was repetitive and dull. “Well,” he said, “care for a drink?” “I don’t drink.” ****. “Oh.” She was beautiful, in an unconventional way. She was more intriguing than attractive. He felt that she knew some god damned thing he didn’t, in the way that she carried herself, in the depth of her eyes and the shallowness of her smile. Her face was pale white and he wondered whether she had a pulse. He no longer felt a romantic commitment was what he wanted, just one second of emotion, of damnation or acceptance or embrace, anything to break the stark neutrality she emanated. Her mind was adrift in perfume. She couldn’t get her mind off it. He smelled it, she knew he smelled it, and a man should notice perfume, not smell it. He apparently hadn’t noticed when she farted, however lightly it was and however red her face turned afterwards, but the perfume was a different story. She felt the hard crust of the garlic bread lodged between her teeth and gums, and a cloud of garlic odor waiting to escape when she opened her lips. When he spoke, whether of the future meal, the waitress, the fat bus boy who broke the glass, each word took a number and waited anxiously in her ear. They were brought in for processing one at a time, trying to merge into stalled traffic created by her choice in outfit and hair and make-up and purse. He coughed, not clearing his throat but clearing his mind. His dating record was full of ties. Rarely did he win one, rarely did he lose one, but often he wound up confused and wondering if he could have won the game if he sent the runner instead of holding him. The waitress emerged from the kitchen carrying their orders on a tray. She saw the waitress, and saw him seeing the waitress. She got to it first. “I think this is us.” She looked at him, past the plate littered with bread crumbs, past the forgotten menus, past their water glasses, and finally reached his eyes. “I think it is.” They broke fragile smiles and felt the first connection of the night. “Which house is it?” “It’s a bit further down. Just keep following the road. It’s purple-pinkish?” “Purple-pinkish?” He had a slight grin. “Well, it’s more pink than purple, I guess,” she said. “It’s a stupid color anyways.” She pointed over the steering wheel from the passenger seat. “See that house?” He nodded. “When I was a kid,” she said, “there was a boy that lived their named John. He had a crush on me and he carved my name into that tree when we were in seventh grade. I walked by that house yesterday and looked at the tree, and I think I could still see some of the lettering.” “Really?” “Yeah. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. It looked like it but I could be wrong.” ****. They drove farther down the street under the flickering streetlights until a bend in the road. “It’s right here,” she said, pointing towards an empty driving leading up to a purple-pinkish house. He pulled to the edge of the street and hit the curb. The car shook and she jumped in her seat. “****. Sorry.” She smiled and gave an acknowledging giggle. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” He got out and swung her door open. The door dug into the grass about a third of the way open. “Oops. Sorry about that,” he said, examining the door lodged in the grass and throwing on a grin. “Slick, aren’t I?” When, God, when? She stumbled through the cracked door. “Sorry, what was that?” “I just said that I’m slick.” “Oh.” She was waiting to say yes to anything. He could paw and whine at the door like her dog waiting to be let inside, and she would let him. “Well, you know,” he said, “Like, slick as in, like a joke.” Not now, apparently. She looked at him, gave a lazy smile, and floated towards the porch. Use the bathroom. Coffee. She climbed the two steps onto the porch, digging into her coat pocket. Get a drink of water. He heard her keys jingle and the porch creak under their feet. Ask to see the inside. Make a phone call. He put his hands in his pockets. Make a phone call. Coffee. Bathroom. See in the inside. Go for it. “Can I see your bedroom?” The slip tingled, starting on the tip of his tongue and pulsing through the end of each limb. The air felt heavy and his mouth hung slightly open, where the last syllable had left it. He couldn’t see her anymore. He could only see a reflection of himself stammering through his question in her ugly gray eyes. “Bathroom,” he said, “Sorry. Can I use your bathroom?” Copyright 2008 Shoosh Russelcrust |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 26 February 2008 ) |
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