Flash Fiction by Rayne Ayers Debski

How to Feed a Muse

You came to me at noon on Wednesdays when we were young and reckless. Shrouded by jasmine and bougainvillea, wrapped in a hammock with fallen mangoes scattered beneath us, we made love in my South Florida backyard. All you wanted was a plate of arroz con pollo and to see me the following week. On your way out, you tossed me lines from Yogi Berra. “If the world was perfect, it wouldn’t be.” My creativity blossomed. I wrote stories with titles like “Woman Mates with Alligator during Lunch Time Trysts” and “Man Discovers Underwear from Aliens in Side Yard,” and sold them to the tabloids.

You started sharing Wednesdays with someone else. I knew because you pouted when I brought out black beans and rice; you said you preferred Pad Thai. You quoted from Camus. “If the world were clear, we would not exist.”

Your treachery inspired me. I learned to cook Moo Dang and wrote stories about people who soaked up guilt the way rice does water. When you came to the dinner party I threw to celebrate the publication of my story collection, you kissed me and whispered “If dogs run free, why don’t we.” I knew the reference to Dylan, but I pretended not to hear you. I was tired after being on the road for two weeks promoting my book. When you wanted to change Wednesday to Tuesday, I said I had scheduled an appointment with my hairstylist. The next day you called and told me your latest protégée had received a fellowship from Florida State and you were moving to Tallahassee with her. I told myself I was modern enough not to care.

It was difficult to get your attention when I couldn’t feed you. I wrote an occasional story, but writing seemed more like a chore than an adventure. Every few months you returned to the area and knocked on my door. I cooked. You ate. We laughed. I wrote. I figured you would stay in touch. Why not? I was your first success.

You disappeared.

I learned from friends that you lived in a condo on Fort Lauderdale beach, sometimes alone, sometimes not. I married, had a daughter, and moved to Maine. I put aside writing the way one does seashells collected on vacation. Whenever I did try to create something, it came out dry as salt cod.

One night I ate dinner at a Thai restaurant, and the spicy flavor of red curry shrimp ignited my palate.

I waited for you to return my call. It was two days since I tried to start my novel, two days of looking at a blank screen, checking my e-mail, and making sure the cats had water. Did you remember me? You were probably drinking Gombay Smashes and eating the raw oysters I had specially delivered to you, while one thousand six hundred and forty-two miles away, I was grinding my teeth. Find someone nearby, my friends told me. But I’d known you for years. It would be disloyal to work with anyone else.

Potatoes, onions, and carrots from my garden sat on the kitchen counter as if daring me to assemble them into something more exotic than the vegetable stew I planned for dinner. I made a quick trip to the farmer’s market for wild mushrooms and thyme and tried to imagine the taste of porcini mushroom soup. My stomach growled.

The message light on my answering machine was blinking. I recognized your voice and the quote from Yogi Berra: “If you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

I felt the rocking of the hammock and smelled the sweet jasmine. I replayed the message and laughed. The mushroom soup could wait. I sat at the computer and let the words come.

Originally published in flashquake, Summer 2009, Volume 8, Issue 4.

Up

In the airport café, Howard offers to help me off with my coat. I shake my head and pull it tighter around me. We sit at a table beneath the sign warning patrons to keep track of their belongings. Although it’s early, five past six, the place is busy. Flight attendants with morning departures order tea. Passengers scan the Washington Post. I check to make sure my carry-on is safely stowed underneath the table, while my husband fusses over the menu and decides what we’ll have.

It’s good to be someplace different, to have a few choices. Every weekday morning for the four years we’ve been married, we’ve stopped for coffee at a little place on King Street midway between our offices. Howard has patronized it for years, unwilling to trade its staid atmosphere for the Starbucks across the street. Something brushes seductively against my leg. A large orange feline wanders around my chair. He reminds me of the cat I had before we were married. I don’t know what he’s doing in the airport; I don’t want to call attention to him.

My husband walks to the counter. He wears a blue shirt and khaki trousers instead of his usual pinstripe suit. His blond hair is parted to the side. His skin shows the results of weekend sails on the Potomac. He looks like he should be easygoing. He isn’t. Everything about him is precise, from the way he keeps the lines on his sailboat (perfectly coiled) to the instructions he gives me for grilling steak (sear each side exactly four minutes). Once a week he takes me shopping and buys another addition to my wardrobe. Sometimes it’s a scarf or a purse. Often it’s a dress or a suit. I have clothes from Saks, Bloomingdale’s, and Georgetown boutiques I’ve yet to wear. The extra bedroom in our townhouse has morphed into one huge closet filled with items waiting to be seen. My co-workers are envious. They think it would be divine to have such a husband. I used to enjoy shopping. Now I make excuses to avoid these excursions. The cat rubs against my leg. I slip off my shoes and run my feet on his silken fur. Howard will sneeze if he sees him. Suppressing a sigh, I push the cat away with my foot.

Coming into the café are two senior partners from Howard’s firm. I wonder if they know we’re here. We’re on vacation, I want to tell them. They sit in the corner where they can’t be seen. Howard is working so hard to make partner. Every Sunday he takes me to brunch at Bistro Francais. He puts together an outfit for me to wear for two hours of schmoozing with the partners and their spouses. Two hours of eating Eggs Benedict, inhaling cigarette smoke, and drinking too much champagne.

He returns with steaming cups of latte. I don’t tell him the partners are sitting by the trashcan. I want a spoon, which he has neglected to bring.

“You don’t need a spoon,” he says. “But you might want to fix your lipstick. It’s smeared on the right.”

He tells me to take off my coat. I pretend not to hear him and glide over to the utensils. Every seat in the café is filled. The line of customers snakes out the door. The air is thick with cinnamon and mocha. The impatient crowd presses on me. I can’t breathe. The vinyl floor is hot; the soles of my feet stick to it. Like a sentry, the cat stands beside me. By the time I get back to the table, I’m having meltdown. My throat aches from dryness. The latte has lost its appeal. Sweat runs down my face, carrying my makeup in its current.

I can’t stop what comes next. I remove my coat and fling it over my chair. Howard is scrutinizing The Wall Street Journal. Maybe it’s the sudden hush in the room or simply that he has to turn to another page. His attention shifts. He starts to smile at me over the top of the paper. His face turns purple.

His lips move, but no words come out. I hope he isn’t having a heart attack. Maybe if I sit, he’ll calm down. I know what’s got him so unnerved: he didn’t check my outfit this morning. He’s blinking furiously. All I’m wearing is a mauve scarf and red toenail polish. He jumps up to retrieve my coat, but it has disappeared. The partners are standing beside the trashcans watching us. Howard frantically motions for me to put on his coat, but if I do that, I’ll burn up. Spontaneous combustion. I wonder which would be worse for him: having his wife stand naked in an airport concession, or having her flash and burn.

It doesn’t matter, really. All I want is lemonade. I want to feel ice melt into my tongue and soothing lemon glide down my throat. I don’t care about Howard’s purple face, the partners, or if my toenail polish clashes with my scarf.

The cat stands at the café entrance. With a flick of his tail, he signals me to follow him. He vanishes into the mass of travelers. I take a long look at Howard’s meticulously parted hair. I go after the cat.

The crowd moves aside. Being naked in an airport has its advantages. People gawk, but they don’t get close. With each step, I’m less claustrophobic. I spot the cat at Gate H30. I concentrate on the monotone announcements of departures and connections and ignore the yelling and pointing. My mouth is so dry. I want to stop for something to drink, but no one will serve a lady without clothes.

The cat scampers towards the departure door. Forget Security, he hisses. They know you’ve nothing to hide. He begins to fade away before I can catch up with him. Someone is shouting. The cat disappears into the dimly lit jetway. I take a deep breath and run down the tunnel to find him.

Orignally published in The Kit-Cat Review, Volume 3, Number 4, Winter 2003.