Stolen Pride

Despite the long plane ride, Sarah was energized. Even though it meant she would only have a day to recover, she had spent an extra night in New York to take her client to one of the hottest new restaurants. The client, lubricated with just the right amount of alcohol and flirting, loved the pitch. She'll have some explaining to do when she submits her expense report, but with the new business, no one will care.

She practically swaggered as she grabbed her luggage and got into the elevator to the parking garage. "Two, please" she requested of the young couple who was already inside.

As she stepped into the concrete parking structure, she remembered why she hated this parking lot. It was always dark at night, lit only by sporadic, dim overhead lights. With its outdated maze of parking spaces, views half hidden by cement pillars, she always felt someone was waiting just around the corner. Next time, she thought, she should just take a car service.

She approached section 2G, keeping her eyes open for the silver-blue BMW, her gift to herself when she landed this job. It would take years to pay it off, but the car reflected the image she wanted to project. Sarah never wanted to appear anything less than confident, professional, and perfectly put-together.

At the end of the aisle, Sarah stopped short. She stared for a moment at the empty space where her car was supposed to be. "This is the space," she thought, remembering the mantra she had repeated to herself when she parked there three days ago: "Section 2G, last spot after the pillar."

"Stolen," she muttered. "Shit." Her feet throbbed from lugging her bags in the kind of impractical shoes she knew better than to wear on a 6 hour plane ride. Unsure what to do next, she began the trek back toward the terminal, her confidence waning with every uneven step. As she walked, she felt a presence behind her, following slowly. Her heart began to race as she glanced back. "Oh, thank god!" she cried as the security car's blinking yellow lights approached.

The guard gave her a ride to the office. As she rode, she chided herself for leaving the parking ticket in the car. "You're giving a thief a ticket to freedom!" her mother used to tell her. She tried to make a mental list of what she left in the car: Burberry umbrella, iPod, gym clothes. She hoped her cut-rate insurance policy would cover the loss.

At the office, the guard behind the desk asked for her license plate number. Sarah groaned as she spelled out her vanity plate, YALEGRL, realizing she'd probably never get that back either. The guard turned the computer monitor toward her, revealing a picture of her car. "Is this it?" he asked.

"Yes, it is. When was that taken?"

"Just this morning," he replied. "We take pictures of the lots once a day." She groaned again, realizing that the extra night in New York may have cost her more than just an extra night's sleep. "Come on, I'll take you to it."

"Oh, god," she thought as she got back into the security pickup, "they have the car." She imagined what it would look like. Would the windows be smashed? The paint scratched? She could barely stomach the thought of seeing her overpriced baby in such a wrecked state. Maybe she could at least salvage the vanity plates.

"Ma'am?" Sarah jolted out of her daydream. "Here you are."

And there, in front of her, was her perfect, shiny, silver-blue car, parked right where she left it in Section 3G, last spot after the pillar.

This piece of fiction was written as part of The Red Dress Club. Today's prompt was Someone has stolen something from you (or your character). Something of tremendous value. What will you do to get it back? Or will you give up?

I'm new to fiction writing, so concrit appreciated!
 

Down and Back Again

I raced out of my last final, ready to start winter break. I had packed my bags that morning, and when I got back to the apartment my roommate was waiting for me. We threw the duffels in the trunk, strategically arranged the snacks (always Cool Ranch Doritos and Diet Coke) for easy access, and got in the car. "Wait! I forgot the fish."

I grabbed the fish tank that I planned to keep at my feet for the drive. They were just goldfish, but I couldn't leave them for two weeks with no one to feed them. "Okay. Let's go."

Allison and I had known each other since we were kids. Now in our senior year of college, we were roommates. We had done this drive many times before, down and back in her little brown Toyota 2-door that she insisted we say was "taupe." That car was our ticket to freedom as soon as she turned 16. She never let anyone else drive it, so I was navigator, snack provider, and this time, fish tank stabilizer.

The drive was a straight shot, the 5 to the 405, exit at the San Fernando Valley. We rarely took the scenic coastal route down Highway 101, not wanting to take the time despite the more interesting view. Besides, it was already after 3. It would be dark in a couple of hours.

We were a few hours into the drive when it started to rain. It was cold, and we were worried about getting through the Grapevine, a stretch of highway that is prone to sudden closures when it snows. Traffic can back up traffic for hours. We decided to take the hit on time and head over to 101 on one of the stretches of road connecting the two highways. After a brief glance at the map, we took the exit marked Rte 46: Lost Hills.

The road was just one lane in each direction, no street lights to mark the way. Allison slowed from our 75 mph interstate pace, but soon felt comfortable with the road, which, though dark, was well paved and mostly straight. We went back to our usual routine, making plans for the break, Depeche Mode on the radio. We could see an occasional house along the road, laughed hard at one with the enormous Christmas lights  spelling out "Happy Birthday Jesus" on the rooftop.

And then, I died.

I don't remember anything about the accident. I've been told Allison swerved to avoid an animal, probably nothing more than a raccoon. We went off a ditch at the side of the road and the car flipped. She was fine, but something hit me in the head; the police think it might have been the fishtank. A few minutes later, my heart stopped.

I was only dead for a few seconds, resurrected with a swift thump to the chest by what could have been Jesus himself but turned out to be the owner of the birthday lights house. He ran out when he heard the accident. A short time later, the ambulances arrived. 

And then, I was fine.

I was only in the hospital a few weeks. I had to miss my last semester, but finished my classes and graduated over the summer. Allison and I almost never talk about the accident anymore, not because we want to avoid it but because in so many ways it's like it never happened. We took a detour, mine a little farther than Allison's, but ended up right where we started, the only casualties a taupe Toyota coupe and two little goldfish who were never found.

This week's prompt asked us to write a piece - fiction or non-fiction - in which you or your character take a detour. This piece is fiction, though based on real detour I took with my college roommate.

Only in Florida

The long sharp knife deftly cuts each orb in half with a single slice. Six demi-spheres lie on the counter, rocking slightly, revealing their yellowpink flesh. My grandmother chooses a new tool, a curved knife, slightly serrated, created just for this job. Each segment is separated from its membrane, but left intact inside its fleshy bowl. She places the fruit on little plates, and hands them to me to bring to the table, one half grapefruit per person.

Only in Florida is grapefruit considered an appetizer.

I pick up my spoon, specially designed for the task: oblong with a serrated edge. I take a first taste, feigning a test of the grapefruit’s astringency, but knowing full well that I will reach for the sugar bowl. No grapefruit on earth is sweet enough for an eight year old’s palate.

I sprinkle the sugar, just a light dusting, and watch as the crystals melt shimmering onto the fruit. And now another taste, this time bright and vibrant, tart and sugary. I dig down, making sure to get some of the now sweetened juice in every bite. This was the taste of sunshine, of visits to Grandma and Grandpa, of swimming pools and shuffleboard, of humidity, of winter break in Miami.

Every so often, back home in Southern California, my mom would serve a grapefruit before dinner, but it was never the same. I’m sure the fruit was just as good (the grapefruits probably even imported from Florida) but we didn’t have the special plates, the serrated spoons, the glass of sun tea on the side. We didn’t have the carefree days of a school break.

But mostly, we didn’t have Grandma and Grandpa.

This post is part of The Red Dress Club memoir writing series, RemembeRED. This week, we were asked to write about our favorite fresh fruit or vegetable. Although grapefruit is hardly my favorite fruit, it does hold some special memories.

The Ugly Truth

You say you want the truth? It isn’t pretty. Or it won’t be to you. Actually, I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to ask. Maybe you just didn’t want to know, because then you’d have to do something, admit there’s a problem. That our picture isn’t perfect. That your wife is damaged goods.

Of course, if we’re really being honest here – that is what you want, isn’t it? – you must already know. I’ve made no real attempt to hide anything from you. I practically begged you to catch me. But denial is a powerful drug. Or maybe you really are that blind.

Shall I lay it out for you? New clothes, disappearing for hours into the bathroom, the bedtime excuses. You thought you were just giving me some space, and for that, I am grateful.

You’re still not getting it. Here, I’ll show you. No, don’t look away. See that? They’re really quite beautiful, aren’t they? The lines, so straight and even, each one in it’s place. It took me a while before I could get them that perfect. Each exquisite line a moment of pure feeling, a moment I didn’t have to think about anything else. Didn’t have to remember.

I’m usually careful, but this one here? This one bled more than the others, small round droplets oozing up. I watched that for a long time, each crimson sphere expanding until it collapsed and finally fell, leaving even more tracks. I’d squeeze and watch it again, until I had nothing more to give.

Am I going to stop? No, I don’t think so. I mean, I almost don’t have to cut anymore. I can just look at my arm and remind myself to forget what happened. But I have to do it sometimes. Did you know humans can’t remember physical pain? I’ve always found that fascinating.

Oh, come now. It’s not so bad. It’s not like I’m dying, and it’s nothing that can’t be covered up with a little makeup and some long sleeves. And if someone notices? Scratches are easy to explain. Maybe I fell into a rose bush or picked up the wrong cat. After a while, most people get tired of hearing about real pain. They’d rather you just got over it.

Like you, they’ll just choose to believe the lie. It’s so much easier than the ugly truth.

The Red Robe

I have a red satin robe. It hangs at the back of the closet, near the rack where he used to keep his shoes. I'm reminded of it every so often when it falls to the floor, its silky fabric too delicate to cling to the hanger with any real determination.

I'm not sure why I keep it. Certainly not to remind me of him - our two children do that every day, the boy a spitting image. When he left, I purged the house of everything he gave me, though he (ever the caretaker) insisted I keep the things of value: engagement ring, diamond earrings, the big TV. But I didn't want these things. Sold them for bottom dollar just to have them out of my life.

The purging wasn't out of anger. None of this was his fault, you know. It was all mine, though my friends and family try to tell me otherwise. We weren't happy. He was always working. But I was the one who cheated, or at least wanted to. I misread intentions, believed that the one who got away was coming back. I was wrong. About all of it.

The robe was a gift, an uncomfortable gesture, not sure of the appropriateness of lingerie for a first Valentine's Day. At the time, his awkwardness was appealing, genuine. The matching red g-string is long gone, my body, older and softer, having outgrown such a small piece of fabric.

But I keep the robe, picking it up off the floor every few months. Placing it back on the hanger that has held it for 10 years. Maybe more. Once again finding its spot in the back of the closet, where he used to keep his shoes.

What If?

On her drive across the Bay, she thought of silly jokes. It was kind of their thing, laughing uncontrollably at jokes that should only be told by a 5 year old. “Two guys walk into a bar, Sam Clam’s Diner, Tied in little Nazis,” the kind of jokes only good friends and a couple of drinks can turn hilarious. She wasn’t sure why she was going there anyway. To show off to her ex with her shiny new car and shiny new diploma? But she knew it wasn’t about him, hadn’t been for a long time. She was there to see Greg.

Greg. He was always the one, wasn’t he? Even when dating Chris for all those years, she knew Greg was in the room just across the hall. Nothing ever happened between them, nothing physical anyway. But the tension was there, and before she left, it was palpable, and they weren’t fooling anybody. But she went east, leaving both her stale relationship and her desire behind.

But three years goes fast, and now she’s back. She has a new degree and a new job, even a new apartment, but thinking about Greg, she felt the same old butterflies. Maybe she hadn't changed as much as she thought.

As she rounded the familiar corner, she started to reconsider. She could always call, tell him something came up, would visit another weekend. But she kept driving, strong with her desire to catch even a glimpse of her old life, and hopefully bring one piece of it into the new one.

He was waiting when she pulled up. “Nice car.”

“Thanks.”

Neither of them were very good at silence, so they talked small talk, “Weather’s great, I see they replaced the curtains, how’s your sister?” Eventually one of them brought it up. “Why didn’t we ever get together?”

“I wanted to.”

“I know, me too. But.”

The butterflies kicked in again, but she was bold. “But what? Why don’t we?”

“Chris is my best friend. I can’t do that to him.”

“But he was bad to me. Cheated when I was gone. And besides, that’s been over a long time now. Almost three years.”

“It doesn’t work that way. We can’t.” And it was over, just like that. Before it even began.

They took a drive in the new car. She took him home, said goodbye, pretending not to be heartbroken. They kissed when he left, but just briefly, an acknowledgement to the shared feelings but final enough in its austerity. He shut the car door, and as he walked away, she rolled down the window. “Hey Greg?” He turned around.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Olive.”

“Olive who?”

“Olive juice.”

“You too, Nina.”

She waited until she was out of sight before letting the tears fall. She only cried about it that one time, told herself it was for the best – a clean break from her old life, a true fresh start. But even now, over ten years later, she sometimes thinks about that day. Wonders whether she should have fought harder, made the compelling case her law degree should have trained her to do. But the time never seemed right. He met someone, she did too, and their lives moved forward as lives do. They still see each other from time to time, both now married, mostly happily. But despite herself, she always wonders, “what if?”

This piece was written as a part of The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt was to write a short piece in which a character told a joke and a character cried. The piece has to be maximum 600 words and must be able to be read aloud in no more than 3 minutes. It is from an NPR contest called Three-Minute Fiction.