Dinner Party

Laura taps her fingers distractedly on the table and sneaks a glance at her watch. She picks up her fork and puts it back down again. Her mouth-watering plate of pasta has by now solidified into an unappetizing blob. She picks a bread roll and starts tearing it into tiny bits. She has to tell him. She was planning on telling him tonight but then Carrie called and she sounded so miserable that somehow Laura found herself inviting her along. And now, look at the three of them, sitting there in awkward silence, making strained conversation on topics none of them care much about. Killing time and, to Laura’s annoyance, killing Laura’s resolve.

Maybe I can just write it all out in a letter, she thinks in sudden inspiration. But she and Mark have never been a letter writing couple. To start now would be fake and somehow dishonest. Oh why, why did Carrie have to come along tonight?

~*~*~*~*~

Mark stabs his chicken, trying to avoid looking at his almost full plate. Somewhere between getting to the restaurant and seeing Carrie rush to their table, a halo of copper corkscrew curls framing her face, he lost his appetite. The plate of Chicken Saltimbocca is marooned before him, the formerly succulent meat congealing in a cooling puddle as his stomach gives another lurch.

Why didn’t Carrie come before he ordered dinner? The guilt of eating “flesh”, as she calls it, in front of her is making him irritable and hungry with no desire to keep eating. Why didn’t she come on time for once? He could have ordered a salad and… He feels his neck flush a dull red as he throws a nervous glance at Laura but she’s not watching him. She doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t know.

~*~*~*~*~

Carrie picks delicately at her beet and arugula salad. A piece of gorgonzola cheese slips out of fork’s reach and the tines skid on a patch of oil, dislodging a leaf onto the crisp white tablecloth. She picks it up without really looking, her eyes glazed with disappointment. She was so hoping for a long chat with Laura, how stupid of her not to have listened when Laura suggested dinner together. She must have mentioned that Mark would be there. She must have. Lately she could never seem to get Laura on her own. She was busy with work or at the gym or planning outings with Mark. Carrie bites her lip, trying to stop the hot pressure behind her eyelids from resolving itself in a flood down her flushed cheeks.

She hates feeling so weak and needy, but damn it, Laura was her friend well before she even met Mark. Carrie wills the tears back and grits her teeth. Is there a way to suggest dessert but make it clear that Mark isn’t invited? She has to talk to Laura, she has to tell her what she’s decided, what she’s finally come to realize. She has to…

~*~*~*~*~

“May I take this for you, sir?” Mira is already reaching past the man’s arm to remove the barely touched food. This does not look like a successful meal and she sighs. She can already see the look of disgust and annoyance on Alberto’s face when she'll bring the plates back. Alberto hates when food makes its way back into his pristine kitchen. He always takes it as a personal affront and then takes his anger out on the hapless servers. Maybe I can sneak it past the sous chef, she thinks in sudden inspiration. Get Pietro to dump it before Alberto goes ballistic that one of his personal favorites was mangled and left to dry almost whole. Mira sighs and bites her lip. I don’t need this tonight and I bet the tips will be lousy.

“Would anyone care for some dessert?” she hazards, fairly certain of the answer but still hoping she can salvage Alberto’s mood and her tips by suggesting the chocolate soufflé.

“No,” the man is abrupt, pushing his chair back from the table and fishing in his pocket as if to pay. Mira’s face is impassive, her hand already reaching into the pocket of her black apron for the check. Definitely a lousy tip, the guy looks pissed off.

“Actually,” the red haired woman shakes back her curls and dimples up at Mira, giving her a sweetly shy smile, “Actually, I’d love some dessert.”

The other woman looks up in surprise, her fingers stilling for a moment as her eyes travel between her dining companions and up to Mira’s face. She looks lost, as if unsure of why she’s still sitting at the table.

Mira halts, glancing from one diner to another. The man is already on his feet but he’s not looking at either of the women. His face has a closed off look that Mira has long learned to recognize as that of someone who has already left the restaurant in mind if not in body.

“I’ll give you a minute?” Mira allows the end of the sentence to trail off just enough to spur a response.

“No, it’s all right,” the dark-haired woman speaks, her voice growing more assured with each word now that a decision has been reached.

She turns to address the man, “Mark, you go on home. Take the car,” she hands him the keys, pressing them into his hand when he looks like he’s about to sit back down.

“Go on, you said you had some work you wanted to catch up on. Carrie can give me a ride home later.” She looks at her friend whose face lights up as she nods.

“Just go.” Her tone is impassive and she is not looking at the man anymore. Instead, she turns to Mira and gives her a dazzling smile.

“How is your chocolate soufflé?”

Hands

Hands… Touching, caressing, gripping, pushing, hitting, pulling, soothing.

Do they ever do something on their own? Something unexpected? Something you thought they didn’t have in them? Gripping hard enough to cause pain when all you intended is a firm touch? Does it seem sometimes that anger and frustration flows directly from your heart to your hands, bypassing your brain?

Ever wonder how hands can be so expressive without your permission? Ever sit on your hands to stop them from shaking while you pretend to be brave and not care that the world is crumbling all around you? Ever reach for something even when you knew you shouldn’t? Ever force your hands to slip something into your pocket and walk away pretending it didn’t really happen?

Ever have your hands tell you something before your eyes did? Hands breaking out in cold sweat a moment before you saw the car in front of you stop suddenly as you were still reaching for the brake pedal. Did you really think the rash blossoming on the delicate inner wrist was just an allergy? Was it?

Touch… welcomed, desired, rejected, indifferent. Or lack of it. Which is more painful? My hand gripping yours; unable to hold on, unable to let go. Hugs, handshakes, waves, hands talking without ever saying a word. Can you control what your hands say or do? Would you even want to?

Unusual Pet

Not sure which blog this story belongs on... Let's see how it does here. As always, comments are welcome and appreciated.

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The play of wooden wind chimes from his dream translated into persistent knocking on the front door as Richard reluctantly opened his eyes. For a moment all was quiet and then the knocking started again, more determined than before. Grumbling, he pulled on a pair of sweats and glanced at the alarm clock. Two thirty in the morning.

“Someone better be dead, Kira,” he growled, opening the front door.

The woman on his doorstep attempted a smile but what came out was a tightly twisted grimace.

“Oh, I hope so,” was all she said, pushing past him into the house.

Before he could say anything, she turned to face him.

“The bastard had a heart attack,” she spit the words out, hands balled into fists at her sides. “He’s in intensive care and mother insists I come immediately. He couldn’t just die and get it over with, could he?”

She rubbed her arms for warmth and glared at him, “Anyway, you know how my mother gets, so I have to go…” She muttered something unintelligible under her breath.

“Kira, you could tell her, you know,” he attempted. “If she knew what he did…”

“Stop it, Rick, “ she cut him off, waving her hand, “I’m not having another one of those ‘truth is best’ conversations now. This is between me and that bastard and anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” She inhaled and continued, “I need a favor…”

In spite of himself, Richard grinned. Kira’s fiery nature was one of the reasons he fell in love with her even when she told him straight out that he had the wrong plumbing. The two became friends and Richard ended up on the receiving end of many rants involving Kira’s father, or “the bastard” as she referred to him.

“A favor?” Richard’s grin widened, “Do ask…”

Kira set her jaw and glared at him, “I hate asking.”

“Yes, I know.”

Kira turned and prowled around the living room, picking things up and putting them back down. Finally, she stalked back to where Richard was leaning against the wall.

“I have…” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “a pet that needs looking after. I’ll only be gone for a couple of days, three max, but I can’t leave Sephi alone. I need someone to stay at my place during the day and look after her.”

Richard raised an eyebrow, but Kira continued, “You can write from anywhere, right? I have WiFi, food, coffee… You can bring your laptop and you can even sleep there if you want. God knows it’s warmer than this icebox you call home.” She shivered, waiting for his reply.

Richard frowned, “No offense, K, but does your kitty need a constant companion? Can’t I just drop in during the day and feed it or change the litter?”

For the first time that night, Kira’s expression cleared and she gave him a dazzling smile, “I didn’t say Sephi was a cat… Look,” she added before he could interrupt. “Just promise me you’ll do it and I’ll leave you to get back to sleep.”

He opened his mouth to protest but Kira had already seen the agreement in his eyes.

“Great,” she leaned in to give him a quick hug. “Feeding and care instructions are on the kitchen table. I’ll give you a call tonight to see how you’re getting on. Thanks!” and with that she was out the door, leaving him holding a key to her loft.

Driving to Kira’s loft the next morning he tried to recall any previous mention of a pet but came up with nothing. Shrugging, he concentrated instead on the problem with his current freelance assignment.

Still deep in thought, he opened the door and heard rather than felt his breath leaving in a hiss. Folders and papers slowly tumbled from his nerveless fingers as he contemplated the incomprehensible image before him.

In the middle of a sparsely furnished living room, on a soft Persian rug, stood a giant folding dog cage. Its occupant appeared to be asleep on a dark mauve cushion. As he cautiously approached the cage, the oak planks creaked and he stopped. The naked girl in the cage lifted her head and tilting it to the side, regarded him. Arching her back, she stretched gracefully and sat up. The tight black leather collar gleamed darkly against the pale skin. The name tag read Sephi.

“Uhhhm…” he swallowed, “Uhhm, I’m Rick. I…”

“Meow,” said Sephi.