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Pif Magazine
ISSN: 1094-2726
Published by:
Pif, LLC
PMB 248
4820 Yelm Hwy SE
Suite B
Lacey, WA 98503-4903
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| PAST MACRO-FICTION | MORE FICTION |
When you reach Charley’s, pinch your cheeks. Push past the cashmere coats of people waiting for a table and maneuver through the clumps of businessmen who stoop together whispering once you’ve squeezed by. Remove your coat beside a stool wedged in the corner, dropping your purse in the process and then hitting your head on the bar when you retrieve it, causing the man next to you to look your way. Stay calm, ignoring him. Sit quickly on the stool and cross your legs. Toss back your hair and look around, expectantly.
When Daniel doesn’t show, wave at the bartender until he notices. Request a rum and coke, then sip it slowly when it comes. Unfold your cocktail napkin and write lists of presidents, or groceries. Remember to look up, importantly, from time to time. Twist round the diamond ring you wear until the stone is tucked inside your fist, then clench your teeth and fist together in a rhythm, feeling how the facets of the diamonds, oversized, cut marks into your palm. Keep doing this until your palm turns red, until the ice is melted in your glass, until the bartender holds up a phone and asks if you would like to make a call.
Say, No.
When you get home, note how the doorman’s barely changed his stance since you last saw him. Let the air inside the elevator sting the inside of your eyes because you cannot bring yourself to blink. Then force yourself to move out on the landing of your floor because the doors have opened wide.
Plump up the pillows on the bed, and hate the way you have to manage anger, trying to work things out when Daniel stumbles in the room. Inhale stale alcohol when he stops by the bed and staggers, leering at you from the far-off fantasy he’s had of you on his way home and tugging at the knot still in his tie. Pretend to go back to your book while he tries peeling one shoe off, then falls onto the floor and laughs at how he sees himself. Wait while he pauses, pulling himself up when he has figured out you haven’t started laughing, too. Then say again, as evenly as possible, "You could have called."
Hear indignation in his voice when he says, "Bev, what do you want? A client had me on the fucking phone."
Tense instantly. Remember learning back at Girl Guide camp about the Fight or Flight response to fear. Allow yourself amazement at your body’s innate mechanism. Say, "You could have called," then pause and say, "I waited for an hour."
“You’d be gone by then. I figured you’d be home in your new fucking nightgown, fast asleep.” Beneath his breath, hear words that he makes loud enough, “Stop trying to be my mother, Bev.”
Imagine how a torch might feel if it could scorch the cavity beneath your ribs. Consider that you’re being hard on him. Ease up. Restrain your voice. "I waited for an hour, Dan."
When Dan explodes, "You think I like the way it is? You think I planned it? Where were you? Why can’t you wait for me?" try not to flinch.
Detach yourself the way that Dr. Hayes advised last week, pretending to be starring in Another World. Repeat as gently as you can, "I waited for an hour, Dan."
Watch Daniel cross the room and slam the bathroom door behind him. Slide the diamond ring from your left hand and drop it in the glass of water by the bed. Pinch ear plugs from the table, wriggling one into each ear, and lie back, switching off the light to watch the owl’s sharp silhouette emerge beyond the window pane, distinct and powerful against the murky backdrop of the sky.
Next morning, Saturday, count out the tiny beads of sweat that line the upper lip of Daniel’s mouth. Push back the hair that sticks against his forehead. Jump then, startled, when he grabs you by the wrist and shouts, "The keys...Where are the keys?"
Lean over, stroke his forehead, slick with sweat, until the arm that grips you becomes heavy once again with sleep. Then press it, like an oar through water, back against his side.
