Tag: Flash Fiction

He never made me bacon because I complained too much when he did.  It smelled like Wyoming and tasted like pity sex.  I hated it, and he knew it, but for some reason that morning he pulled a pan out from the cabinet next to the sink and started sizzling the stuff right there in front of me.  I stood close to him, in silence, and stared into the pan, watching the fat pull away from the meat.  I felt him looking at me, felt his lips land on my cheek in a sloppy, wet kiss.  I had to leave the kitchen, it was nauseating.

I maneuvered over the sweaty t-shirt and running shoes he’d discarded on the dining room floor after his early morning jog and onto the couch where I buried my face in a giant stuffed teddy bear my mother had made from my grandmother’s ancient mink coat.  It was real mink from the early 30’s and it smelled like cigarettes and Christmas and I liked it better than the smell wafting from my kitchen.  His bacon always angered me.  It lingered in my apartment for days, seeping its way into my couch cushions and my carpet before attaching itself to my hair and then my skin.  Just seeing it made my fingers feel greasy.  I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand in an attempt to dab away what felt like an increase in excess oil on my face.  Nothing helped.

That morning he was humming and hovering over the stove and I should have loved him for it, I wanted to love him.  I tried a little harder everyday to love him that much more, but nothing seemed to help.  I couldn’t love him because he didn’t have to remember and I did and it made my bones ache.  He didn’t remember the argument I had with another man six hours before I met him.  He didn’t remember the words I used to rip apart that man’s world.  Stupid words that meant something to me then, but I can’t remember them now.  He didn’t remember how I smiled at the bar when I noticed him, noticing me.  He didn’t see the pain in the creased skin of my forehead, or if he did, he hid it well as he touched the small of my back and asked me if we had met before, maybe at the Coffee Bean on Wilshire?

I had never met him before but I slept with him anyway.  When we were done, I rolled over to the opposite side of the bed and cried in the dark because what else do you do after you’ve made the choice to ruin your life?  I didn’t mean to stay, but I fell asleep and in the morning I woke up to what was probably supposed to be a cheerful whistle coming from the kitchen but it sounded more like the heartache of a ship leaving port to me.  Before I could squirm out of bed and into my clothes from the night before, he greeted me with a large breakfast and a rose he stole from his neighbor’s front yard.  It was his attempt at sincerity.  He apologized that he didn’t have any toast but insisted I try his “award-winning” bacon scramble.  I vomited vodka tonics for two days and in a brief moment of self pity I gained the courage to try and mend the world I was so callous about ripping apart, but apologies aren’t strong enough to thread a needle with and you can never return to the same place once you’ve defiled it.  He didn’t have to remember any of that, but I did.

With my face still buried in the mink it took me a minute to realize his hand was weaving it’s way through my tangled hair.  I sat up and looked at him.  I was about to tell him that I didn’t love him when he motioned me to be quiet, handed me a napkin and placed a large plate of bacon on the coffee table in front of me.

This cute guy with sandy blonde hair and face stubble is about to hit on me in line at the supermarket.  I can tell because he smiles and tries to catch my eye every time I turn around to pull another wet wipe from my purse, which is slumped over the child seat of the grocery cart between us.  The child that should be occupying the child seat is instead clinging to my side; clawing at my neck because I took away the pack of Trident he lifted from the display where they keep the candy meant to torment the impulse shoppers.  He’s three and doesn’t want to chew it, he just likes playing with shinny things, but he’s accidentally “stolen” before so I’d rather not risk it.

I steal a quick look back and he’s still staring.  We make eye contact and he fumbles before he comments on how long the lines are.  If his intention is to flirt with me, then this attempt fails.  It’s so bad I almost turn back around, but it’s eight o’clock on a Friday night and my husband won’t be home until eleven and even when he arrives it won’t be anything more than a grunt and a scotch before he passes out to a Letterman lullaby.  So I’m spending my evening trying to buy lettuce and gluten free, Envirokids cereal and sitting in a stalled line at the supermarket because the eighty-year-old woman two carts in front of me is paying with money she must have fished out from underneath couch cushions.  Instead of turning my back I take the compliment offered by his smile.  I tell him that I lived in L.A. for four years and I never sat in traffic like this.

He says I have the most beautiful eyes before lowering his, admitting his embarrassment for hitting on me at the checkout stand.  At least it wasn’t the frozen food section, because that would be embarrassing.  I tell terrible jokes when I’m nervous.  He laughs.  His jaw is strong and square and he’s built like a fireman or someone who has to do heavy lifting.  He looks like everything I thought I wanted, everything I told myself didn’t exist, before I settled on my husband.  He leans over the handle of his cart aiming for a better look at the contents of mine.  His blonde hair is just long enough to fall over his eyes and I’m disappointed that they’re not focused on me for the first time since I entered the line.  By now, the old woman ahead of me has finished counting out her $87.64 total in single bills, nickels and pennies and the line inches forward to the man clutching a stack of PennySaver coupons.  When I turn back around, the cute guy’s eyes are back on me.  He says his ex-wife was gluten free so he knows a lot of great recipes and maybe, if I’m interested, we can swap sometime.