Flash Fiction: Jump

“It’s not too late.”

We squat by the open door as wind barrels through into the metal cavern.  My face burns, and I pull my purple knit hat further over my ears to protect them from the harsh wind and the overwhelming noise of propellers. 

“Think of this as a leap of faith.”

We make eye contact, blue clashing with brown; you sigh heavily, tugging on thick gloves.  I try not to take notice that adrenaline has heightened the color in your cheeks or that those are the first words you’ve said to me since we got out of the car an hour ago.

“I’m not interested.”

This is your life, your hobby, your passion.  Within thirty minutes of meeting you a year ago, you made me fully aware that this was your life—it was your full-time job, you explained, with a nonplussed shrug of your broad shoulders. 

But it’s not my passion.  Funny that you are my life, my hobby, my passion.  It’s always seemed strange to me that you could be so attached to an activity.  Some people obsess with cars or jewelry or technology, but not you.  You don’t even have the decency to be tied to an object like everyone else, but to a feeling, to the excitement of it all.  I wonder if the thrill is something you could live without.  

“You agreed to this.”  You pull on goggles, tightening the straps that crisscross over the back of your head, and hand over a separate pair.  “Put those on.”

My hands clam up and I inhale a sharp breath through my nose.  You catch my unease and, behind the clear lens of the goggles, your blue gaze softens.  “I get the ceremony in the air,” you say quietly, huskily, “and you get the big reception at the Pavilion.  We agreed to this, baby.”

The wind howls louder.  I ignore the pair of goggles that dangles from your index finger.  In the span of a moment, I realize that I can’t do this.  Almost immediately the crooked smile on your face falls and you retract your gloved hand.  There will be no marriage, no extreme skydiving wedding.  You are always so quick to compromise, but you overlook the very center of it all: your passion and my passion do not coincide.  Whether it is my fear of heights or my fear that eventually you will grow tired of me, I don’t know, but I shake my head and sink further back into the plane.

Your lips flatten into a harsh line.  Without a word, you turn and jump, taking a leap of faith alone. 

Flash Fiction: Liquid

She is fluidity—it’s there, in the roll of her hips and the flick of her wrists.  He shifts closer, closer, closer until his nose brushes the cold glass pane.  He’ll leave a stain there, a memory.  Hand to the window: fingertips.  Another memory, another signal of his devotion.  More discreet than the flowers he delivers to the studio every week.  She’s allergic to daisies, so he chose roses on Monday.  He personally plucked them from the garden in her front yard, careful to snip off thorns. 

His eyes skim the room.  No one matches her skill.  No one moves so weightlessly.  Her gossamer skirt wraps around her hips when she dips and turns.  He stands, memorized, in the face of her beauty.  She straightens her right leg, strikes out, tangles amid her voluminous skirt.  She trips, falling to the ground with a sheepish expression.  One of the male dancers glides over and draws her up against his thin body.

No.

He meets her gaze over the shoulder of the dancer; her lips tip in an uncertain smile.  He’s waited over a year for the recognition in her eyes. . . But this is not the time. 

He’ll possess her one day.   There must never be a distance—his father taught him that.  His relationship with her now does not suggest intimacy, a tendril of connection that sways with the circumstances but never severs, because it is too early still.  He must continue to woo her.

He knows the exact moment she sees his present by the front door.  A bouquet of roses, freshly picked that morning, tied with a white satin bow.  Her hand steals over the flower, stroking her fingers against the soft petal.  She never suspects.

He turns on his heel.  He has many things to do today, starting with the preparation of her dinner in her apartment, 3B. 

Being her landlord has a multitude of perks, but this, this fascination with her is certainly the most thrilling.

Life of the Average Waitress

Things could be a whole lot worse.

In fact, now that I've written and published the first sentence to this post, it's sure to happen.  Almost guaranteed, actually, since life has a funny sense of humor like that.  Perhaps funny isn't quite the word for it; maybe ironic or sadistic or morbid might be a little more appropriate.  Nevertheless, things could be a whole lot worse--for someone else.

For me, however, being a waitress has a few perks.  I had to think long and hard to find something besides the obvious number one--tips--but in the end, I've come up with a solid five that actually serve some other purpose than just fattening up my wallet.

Let's begin with number one: Tips.  (All right, you caught me: tips certainly are a bonus that can't be ignored.  Now that that's out of the way, the rest of my four reasons for actually enjoying being a waitress are rather  legitimate).

Number Two: My communication skills have exceeded all my prior expectations.  I have always been much more comfortable with a pen (or a keyboard as the case may be in the twenty-first century) and a piece of paper.  Put me in front of a bunch of strangers, regardless of their age or gender, and all the moisture from my mouth evacuates the area and stakes out in my palms--sweaty hands are not attractive--so that while I attempt to overcome my uneasiness and make eye contact, I continuously rub my hands over the front of my pants or skirt or dress or whatever I'm wearing at that moment.  So, I guess that asking, "coffee or tea?" and my personal favorite, "would you prefer bacon or sausage with that french toast?" to complete strangers is actually beneficial.

Number Three: Free, and sometimes unwanted, advice.  Despite the fact that all my regulars know that I've recently graduated from college with an English Writing degree, some of my favorites routinely suggest that I change tracks and go into a more stable career.  Recent suggestions have been a doctor, a computer technician and, my personal favorite, a stock broker who dabbles in real estate.  Considering that A) financial analysts have just lowered the nation's credit score, the stock market (sort of) plummeted the other day, and B) we have yet to dig ourselves out of our little housing market problem, I'd say that I have a much better chance to become a writer.  According to the episode of Tyra Banks I watched the other day, 1 in 220 people becomes a New York Times Bestseller (she so lovingly pointed out that the list extends past the top ten or even the top hundred, but that's besides the point).  Not to mention that my mathematical skills are limited to whatever can be done on my T-I 83 calculator.  Nevertheless, I have to say: I quite enjoy how often my regulars try and persuade me to look into other fields so that I don't become a long-term waitress.  It's sort of touching.

Number Four: Many of those who come to the diner arrive with books.  Of all genres.  Each time someone pops into the diner with a book, I immediately skip over with my little black book, which is filled with receipts and not numbers of past men I've dated, and a menu.  I have no choice about it all, really; I face an unhealthy eagerness each time a book is propped open, front and back flap down so that I can't detect what it is.  The only way to satisfy my curiosity is to, while in the midst of taking their order and asking, "coffee or tea?", sneak a peek at the book when I'm up close, or ask out right what he or she is reading.  It might have been a little pathetic when I began working at that diner two months ago after graduating, but since then, I've traded plenty of lists with new authors and titles that I've never read before.  For a reader and writer like myself, it's quite nice to talk literature, even when I need to return to the kitchen to put in the food order.

Number Five: I find inspiration for writing with almost every person who strolls into the diner.  The other day, I noticed a couple who wore matching wedding rings; each time I passed by their table, though, I overheard the woman demanding to know why they couldn't just marry.  An affair, perhaps?  Were they hoping to renew their vows?  Maybe the gold rings I'd spotted on their respective left hands were simply a ploy for a marriage that actually never took place.  Stranger things have certainly happened.  Or perhaps I've read way too many books.  Whatever the case, each day I return home from the diner, I can't help but sit down at my computer and open up a brand new Word document (although I should be working on my manuscript).

So, maybe my two short months of being a waitress are not quite the average, but I have to say this: it could be a whole lot worse.