novella
Active Member
What am I doing in a place with blue potatoes and stainless steel chairs? Marie thought, scanning the huge gray room with scorn. Felt like an aquarium. A stiff breeze slid across her bare shivering knees when the double doors opened.
“I should’ve brought a blanket,” she said.
"M'hot," Skid said, shaking his head in disagreement and shovelling a forkful of puff pastry into the gap. Stray flakes of pastry adhered to his upper lip.
She was frowning hard, but let it happen. **** wrinkles. She bolted the third goldfish bowl of sauvignon blanc as soon as the waiter set it down, tapped the rim of her glass, and he scurried off to get another.
Sensing that his beloved was dancing at the edge of another scene, Skid eyed her cautiously, just barely catching her eye.
“You gonna eat that or what?” he asked, pointing his fork at the unattractive lump of duck breast lurking next to the violet spud pile.
He wanted the duck. She saw the lazy way his eyes rested on it, like a dog with a bad plan. He was about to stab it right across the table. She felt the inevitability of it. He raised his arm and it wavered, fork extended, over the low votive candle, unsteadily threatening the wine glasses. She picked up the pale green plate and held it just within his reach. Stab. As soon as the duck was aloft, Skid waved the plate away. It slid out of her hand and clattered back onto the metal table like a garbage can lid hitting pavement.
The fourth glass came. The waiter eyed the duckless plate. She moved the cutlery to four-twenty and he took it away.
“M’umgry,” Skid said, nodding his head in gratitude, a mouthful of bird-muffle. Skid talk for “This is good. I’m hungry.”
Marie hated him thoroughly just then, from his black hair combed up like fresh turf to his two-toned soft-soled shoes. But she also knew that the sharp stab of revulsion she felt would wear down to a dull, familiar loathing in an hour or two, and she would resume ignoring him, listening with half an ear, and looking on the bright side of a not-too-great situation. She contemplated that fate, watching him masticulate the food.
It wasn’t so much the ugly-trendy clothes or that he did absolutely everything with his mouth open. It wasn’t even his juvie-puppy criminal dumbness. What got to her was the steady vibe of fear and passivity he gave off.
In a way, she wanted to stab his hairy arm with a fork, but, at the same time, she didn’t want to hurt him. It would be too painful to see his face when he realized that he was right all this time: the world is unpredictable and hostile and you should keep your head down and just keep eating.
“I gotta hit the head,” he said, chewing as he stood. He laid his napkin across his plate and walked toward the men's room. Marie threw back the last gulp of wine, slipped a twenty to the good waiter, and slid towards the door, as smoothly and easily as the sugarplum fairy in Holiday on Ice.
“I should’ve brought a blanket,” she said.
"M'hot," Skid said, shaking his head in disagreement and shovelling a forkful of puff pastry into the gap. Stray flakes of pastry adhered to his upper lip.
She was frowning hard, but let it happen. **** wrinkles. She bolted the third goldfish bowl of sauvignon blanc as soon as the waiter set it down, tapped the rim of her glass, and he scurried off to get another.
Sensing that his beloved was dancing at the edge of another scene, Skid eyed her cautiously, just barely catching her eye.
“You gonna eat that or what?” he asked, pointing his fork at the unattractive lump of duck breast lurking next to the violet spud pile.
He wanted the duck. She saw the lazy way his eyes rested on it, like a dog with a bad plan. He was about to stab it right across the table. She felt the inevitability of it. He raised his arm and it wavered, fork extended, over the low votive candle, unsteadily threatening the wine glasses. She picked up the pale green plate and held it just within his reach. Stab. As soon as the duck was aloft, Skid waved the plate away. It slid out of her hand and clattered back onto the metal table like a garbage can lid hitting pavement.
The fourth glass came. The waiter eyed the duckless plate. She moved the cutlery to four-twenty and he took it away.
“M’umgry,” Skid said, nodding his head in gratitude, a mouthful of bird-muffle. Skid talk for “This is good. I’m hungry.”
Marie hated him thoroughly just then, from his black hair combed up like fresh turf to his two-toned soft-soled shoes. But she also knew that the sharp stab of revulsion she felt would wear down to a dull, familiar loathing in an hour or two, and she would resume ignoring him, listening with half an ear, and looking on the bright side of a not-too-great situation. She contemplated that fate, watching him masticulate the food.
It wasn’t so much the ugly-trendy clothes or that he did absolutely everything with his mouth open. It wasn’t even his juvie-puppy criminal dumbness. What got to her was the steady vibe of fear and passivity he gave off.
In a way, she wanted to stab his hairy arm with a fork, but, at the same time, she didn’t want to hurt him. It would be too painful to see his face when he realized that he was right all this time: the world is unpredictable and hostile and you should keep your head down and just keep eating.
“I gotta hit the head,” he said, chewing as he stood. He laid his napkin across his plate and walked toward the men's room. Marie threw back the last gulp of wine, slipped a twenty to the good waiter, and slid towards the door, as smoothly and easily as the sugarplum fairy in Holiday on Ice.
