Fiction Friday: [Table For One]

“Green tea latte with almond milk.”

This time—the third time—the barista’s voice cut through the air with an edge, meant to slice the person inconveniencing her with a dose of public shaming. Rodney Melliver knew the drink was his, but he couldn’t respond. Shoulders slumped forward and chin to chest, he realized there was a distinct possibility the tiny round table dappled in pastry crumbs might be the last thing he ever saw.

The first tingles danced up his arm while he stood in line, waiting to order the ridiculously overpriced drink everyone at work had talked about. He ignored it at the time because, as had been the case for the past several days, he found himself lost in the past. Memories flooded his mind without warning. Each one bringing him to his knees with shame and regret.

While in line, Rodney was in the midst of reliving his daughter’s birthday. Well, the last one he remembered and, more impressively, acknowledged. Two days past the day she was born, he got her a card and didn’t even bother putting it in the envelope. The freshly turned nine year old was on the couch watching television when he got home. He tossed the card next to her and mumbled happy birthday without breaking his stride to grab a beer from the fridge. Now, eleven years later, remorse had found him, demanding as much attention in the spotlight as the dull prickles traveling up and down his arm and the painful contractions in his chest.   

Rodney imagined himself outside of his body. An observer to his own pathetic state: slouched and alone. So alone that there wasn’t even an empty seat at the table for him to welcome potential company. Borrowed earlier by the fleshy-faced guy at the neighboring table. When he watched him carry it away and join his friends, Rodney was gut-punched with jealousy. It had become increasingly difficult for him to see what life could have been if he had only tried.

But he hadn’t. And here he was.

“Green tea latte with…you know what? Forget thi…”

The barista’s voice trailed off and darkness crowded the edges of Rodney’s vision, he hated that his last act before dying would be to add another person to the list of people he had angered.

As the sounds around him melted together into a tinny, echoey jumble, Rodney vowed that if he was given another chance, his life would be different. He would be better. Do better.

And he would definitely try the green tea latte with almond milk.

Fiction Friday: [The Patience of Spring]

Charles wrapped his crooked, knobby fingers around the top of his cane and lamented over the effort of each joint. Counting the spots on the back of his hand, he wondered where all the time had gone. With an ornery sigh and great effort, he managed to make it from the bed over to the window, dropping into his favorite, overstuffed chair.

“Well, look at you. Already up and at’em, I see.” This particular nurse was much too chipper for his taste. “You’re looking a bit grumpy today. Maybe we’ll go for a walk down in the garden later, huh?”

He grunted in response, hoping to knock a little shine off her cheery disposition. Sometimes a man just wanted to be in a funk. And the way Charles saw it, he’d put in enough years on this earth to do so when he pleased.

“It’s time for your morning pills,” she said with no sign of being even slightly bothered by his attitude.

It only added to the cloud of irritation that bloomed in his chest. It was all made worse when he took note of her uniform: t-shirt and jeans. Her unprofessionalism was infuriating and he just wanted her to leave him be.

He expelled an exaggerated huff then reached for the pills. When he noticed how shaky his hand was, he quickly drew it back. Turning away from nurse what’s-her-name and staring out the window, Charles allowed his embarrassment to morph into anger.

“Just leave them on the table,” he said dismissively. “And get out. I’m a grown man. I know how to take my own damn pills.”

 Stillness settled around the room. Charles could hear the lazy ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall. The longer the nurse stood frozen behind him, the more he realized how unfair he had been. But instead of apologizing, he pressed his lips firmly together and continued to stare out at the late-arriving colors sprouting in the garden. It had been a long, tough winter.

The nurse finally woke from her catatonic state and moved closer to Charles, setting a glass of water and pills on the table next to him. When she placed her hand on his shoulder, he didn’t yell. He was surprised by how comforted he was by the gesture. When she gently planted a kiss on the top of his head, he didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes and drank in the familiarity

“I’ll come back by later to see if you want to go for that walk,” she said, her joyful tone a bit chipped.  

Even with his back to her, he could still feel that she was there, hovering near the door.

“I love you, dad.” He heard her say.

But by the time he turned around, she was already gone.  

Fiction Friday:[A Beacon in the Snow]

Lila’s knees hit her chest with every step, yet she insisted on walking. Her mittened hand clung tightly to my own as she trudged her way through. Each firmly planted foot earned her a satisfying crunch and the smile that spread across her ruddy face was all I needed to know that to her, the effort was worth it.

A gaggle of squeals and giggles drifted toward us and I could feel the excited anticipation vibrating from Lila’s body the closer we got. When she caught shocks of primary colors flashing between tree trunks, she let go of my hand, and with the intention of running, she fell face first. For a moment she just lay there, unmoving. I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up, saddened at the thought of her initial excitement dwindling away.

Lila’s face was covered in freshly fallen snow and as I wiped it away, her eyes popped open. A squeal escaped through her smile that rivaled those we had been heading toward. She clapped her hands and the snow dislodged and rained down toward the ground.

Frosty and numb, my cheeks rose as her joy bolstered my own smile. By the time we had reached the other children, they had tamped the snow down enough to give Lila the freedom she had desired. She pulled free from my hand and ran into the fray. One of dozens of kids, Lila’s laughter served as a beacon.

I thought about how I’d cursed the snow as I looked out the window this morning. How I had resented it for ruining my day before it had even begun. But now I couldn’t imagine ever looking out to discover it had snowed and not being reminded of the sweetest sound I had ever heard. 

Fiction Friday: [Detonation]

It was the first time she’d seen him since he died.

Crossing Broadway and 72nd, Satomi was stopped in her tracks. Confusion numbed her to the throng of commuters knocking her to and fro around the bustling intersection like a pinball. As flashes of jackets and sweaters zigzagged past their unbroken gaze, the guilt washed over her.

She had never even shed a tear.

The angry horns of yellow cabs barely registered through the ticking. She knew it was the time bomb her family and friends spoke of when they thought she was out of ear shot. Her breathing grew shallow in anticipation of its detonation.

Heat, from deep within, rose to the surface in opposition to the crisp fall air. As her skin tingled, she had no doubt the time had come. A moment that should have happened months ago in the loving arms of her family, instead played out amongst the loud ringtones and honking horns of strangers.

Cutting through it all was his smile. It wasn’t until she tasted the salt in her tears that Satomi realized she was smiling, too.

It was the first time she’d seen her father since he died and her smile grew, knowing it wouldn’t be the last.

Fiction Friday: [I'm Still Here]

I hate the beeping.
I know I shouldn’t
since it’s a
constant reminder
that I’m alive.

But I do.
I do because
it also reminds me
that no one believes
I’m still here.

My mother visits.
She holds my hand,
but I know.
I know she thinks
I’m just a shell.

The lifeless body
of the daughter
she doesn’t know,
doesn’t realize,
is still here.

If she knew,
she wouldn’t
talk about
how close she is
to giving up hope.

She wouldn’t lament
over all the things
she never
had a chance
to tell me.

She would know
I heard her.
Every word. Every time.
Even over
the relentless beeping.