Skip to main content

Flash Fiction Work In Progress: Paint Flecks

She was silent. The silence so loud it was as if the world had been put on mute. It was just them. He reached out and ran the thick pad of his thumb along her bottom lip as the other cradled her neck.
                                 
                                                               *****

"How was your trip?" he asked, fingering the arm rest of the chair.

The rectangular shaped desk between them was more than desk. It embodied the tangible gestures as they looked away from one another and fiddled with imaginary things around them. It was the space between two people who once loved.

"It was good," she said, looking down then back up at the darkened shadows of his eyes.

She smoothed the papers on her desk, flattening the curled corners with her right hand.

"Did you go into the city?"

"I did. It was amazing. Really great. Amazing," she repeated, "How are you? You look pale," she added rushed.

"I've been painting. A new collection," he held his hands out. His fingers and nail beds were covered in bits of rainbow colors.

"That's good. You do better when you're working," she trailed off, "Creating."

They were quiet. The noises of the building filled the air. She reached up to tuck a long brown strand behind her ear.

"He asked you, then?"

She looked at him eyes wide, then at her hand where a small row of diamonds hugged her ring finger. It was inevitable. Her hand, life wouldn't stay a secret. This world was too small.

"Yes," she nodded and looked away.

She couldn't meet his gaze, not yet, but she couldn't stare at the words on the sheets in front of her forever.

"I knew he would."

The words fell from his lips and landed on the desk in front of her. Thump. The tone snapped her head up. His face was shadowed, lines deeper than they had been minutes ago. He stared at her.She wanted to turn away, but she had no reason to. She swallowed and stared back until he moved his gaze to his stained fingernails.

"I didn't know if..." her voice caught, "I should tell you or wait 'till--"

"Someone else told me?" his voice loud now.

"I don't owe you anything," she said.

"I--" his voice fell away as her words returned, heavy on his shoulders. "You're right."

He stood and walked around the desk. She jumped up pushing herself away from the desk, from him.

"I'm really happy for you," he said reaching out for her. He pulled her towards him, squeezed her hard, tight against his lean chest, then pushed her away. Without a word he turned the corner and left. The cold warmth of his body was barely felt before it was gone.

She stood where he had left her, still.  Part of her wanted to go after him, to explain, to tell him that... She didn't know what. She looked down at her hand and smiled. She fingered the ring with her thumb, the metal warm. She looked back up at the hallway.  Her smile faded.

More people had begun to arrive.  Artists, musicians, all tended to work at night.  Deep voices and unintelligible conversations rumbled in the wide hallways. Strings strummed, drummers drummed,  all the noises seemed to assault the loudness of the silence of his exit, but it also helped to drown it out.

She packed her papers and computer away and slung the messenger bag over her shoulder before turning out the lights to her space. The bands music followed her as she walked to the car. She looked up and saw him through the window. His gestures were jerky and on a different beat than the music as he splattered red and white paint streaking it across the wall size canvas.  She stood  next to her car and stared up watching as his arms moved back and forth as if he were conducting an orchestra across the canvas.  He was illuminated in the bright studio light as he swayed back and forth, graceful in his own staccato way.  She smiled again. It didn't reach her eyes.

The car door slammed against the night and she drove away, without looking back, the road illuminated by streetlights.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...
3 comments
Read more

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...
2 comments
Read more

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
Post a Comment
Read more