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Not Quite Kiss
October 24, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Bed, Gaze, Kiss, Laugh, Moment, Philosophy, Rapture, Transcend | by davidbdale | 4 comments
My coffee cup is a moment of stillness so unlike the headlong hurtling present. Painted Japanese characters dangle from its rim like icicles from a timeline. I don’t know what they mean. Here is what I want them to mean. The mind races, but, to the mind, a Japanese cup seems frozen, fixed and durable, not quite rock but petrified. I want to not quite kiss you, is what I’m saying, for you to be not quite kissed. The cup has no handle because: too hot to handle is too hot to drink. You’ll wait, I hope, and cool a little while I heat. A riddle for the meantime. Liquid is a snare; gas another snare; steam is how coffee transcends, but to what. What is the cup. What are you in the doorway, not yet in the room, no longer outdoors. What is the smell of coffee. It makes you laugh to stand on the threshold teetering toward the bed, cold, underdressed, not because it’s funny. You can’t believe you’re waiting there at my request so I can memorize this frozen state of you, shivering between two raptures. The winter lawn was bracing, I imagine. I heard your shock when the cold dawn knocked you down. If you can exit this little emergency, the bed will toast you. I’ve asked you to wait. I didn’t expect you to comply. I’m not sure I would do the same. On tiptoe, in frosty boots and little else, you vibrate in the instant but stand and open your gathered garment and wear my gaze. The coffee has no sense of humor. It cannot be cajoled. You tremble toward the bed and laugh through your nose and grant me the gift of this transcendent moment which sustains me long after you’ve gone.
Copyright © 2006
Boss’s Girl
October 23, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Boss, Business, Office, Violence, Work | by davidbdale | 3 comments
Stepping from the long car outside his office building, Number2 straightened the crease of his trouser leg, freeing it from the tongue of his shoe, and turned toward the private entrance. The freed pants leg flapped like a penitent in the wind. He considered his reflection in a mirrored wall and wondered could the shortness of his stride cost him a promotion? He must have meant pennant. Number2 delivered a full-armed slap, putting his shoulder into the effort, across the upper half of the doorman’s face. Morning, Jimmy, he said. Morning, sir, said the doorman. Boss in yet, Jimmy? Yes, sir, said the doorman. Bright and early. Number2 punched the doorman just above the belt buckle. Did I ask you when she got in, Jimmy? No, sir, said the doorman. No, sir, you didn’t. Number2 walloped the receptionist with a fist to the side of her head and picked up his overnight packages. Morning, darling. Morning, sir. With a knee brought swiftly from behind, he caught the elevator operator unaware between the hams and slammed his body against the wall. Eleven, Jack. Eleven, sir? Number2 banged Jack’s head against the cluster of buttons 21 through 29. Boss in? Number2 asked the boss’s girl. She’s waiting for you, sir. Number2 tipped her chair, spilled the girl against a bank of cabinets, and entered the boss’s office. Number1 was standing on her desk. Her head and shoulders disappeared through an open frame in the ceiling. Need help, boss? Asked Number2. Number1 clocked Number2 with a quick kick to the head. I think I got it, said Number1. Number2 crashed to the floor and lay there quietly, awaiting further instructions. He looked up at the boss’s legs, silently considering. His lip was beginning to swell. Thanks for coming in early, she said.
Copyright ©1997
Very Short Novels 