Writing
Saturday: A Little Sci Fi Departure
A Sci-Fi Departure
Saturday: A Little Sci Fi Departure
Author’s Note: The following is a bit of a departure from romance. A little sci-fi short fiction. I wrote this shortly after my mother passed away. It’s dedicated to her.
Saturday
By Tati Richardson
“There is an opening on Saturday. That is all I have.” the broker declared. His definitive answer.
Ala frowned and shifted in the chair. She didn’t want this weekend occupied with this. But if this was all that was available, she’d have to take it. She pushed her glasses up from the bridge of her nose and tapped her small, slender finger against her lip. She was thinking. The broker was becoming agitated. He grunted and coughed, an action he’d hope would hurry her decision.
“That’s fine. If it has to happen Saturday, then that is fine.” Ala sighed. “But the price? We can’t negotiate something… reasonable. I mean…”
The Broker cut her off. “I have no control over the price. It is what it is. And with the impending possibility of legislation making this illegal, there is no wiggle room. Do you have it?”
Ala had it. It was most of her savings. She didn’t want to hand it over so easily, but it was an end to a means. She slid the small manila envelope containing the check across the Broker’s desk. He pursed his thin, pale lips and forced a tight smile across his round, pie-like face. The money wasn’t the most important part of the transaction. She held the larger envelope in her lap.
“And...” Ala stammered. “Can you make it? I mean, can they make it be like I asked?” She handed the larger, thick manila envelope to the Broker. He opened the envelope, sliding the contents out carefully. He looked at them and looked back at Ala, studying her slender freckled-brown face. “Not a problem. I am sure they can. If you don’t mind, I’ll hold on to this. Gives them a clearer picture, you know. So… Saturday then?”.
Ala nodded yes. “Then Saturday it is.” Ala said.
The Broker began typing on his tablet. There was a long period of silence. The sterile, concrete office had a noticeable chill now. Maybe the chill had always been there, but Ala had been ignoring it.
“I am sending you the address, instructions and time via email. Do not be late. Otherwise, you lose your spot and the money is non-refundable. For what it’s worth, good luck ma’am.”
Ala stood up, adjusted her suit jacket and extended her hand to The Broker. Not one to shake hands, he grunted and reluctantly shook Ala’s. She picked up her large tote bag and stood in front of The Broker’s office door. With a swipe, the heavy metal doors opened to the elevator hallway. She looked back at the Broker, who was already plugged into his headset on another call. The doors of his office closed rather abruptly, startling Ala. She stood in the cavernous hallway and pressed the elevator button. She had hoped she had done the right thing by doing it this way.
****
Her job was not important.
The Friday before her appointment, Ala sat in the cubicle of her office, typing at her computer. They tasked her with accounting in the Bureau. It was a menial government job. Lots of numbers, drafts and spreadsheets which amounted to a lot of nothing. Mid-level with no growth. Government busy work. Although she had been there twelve years, her job was not important. She would not be missed. She did not adorn her cubicle with family photos. No husband. No children. Not even a cat. There were no plants. Nothing that would consume her with its care. She wanted to just “pack and go” if the time came. The time had come. All she had was a small, shoe-box sized amount of things: a paperweight, her college diploma, and an envelope of personal reviews. She thumbed through the reviews. All exemplary. A “model employee.” Her boss had addressed her in every review for the past 12 years as “Ada” not “Ala”. Again, her job was not important enough for anyone to care about the correct spelling of her name.
She submitted her final report to her supervisor and logged off her computer with a swipe of her badge. She thought of putting her work badge in her shoebox. But she left it on the desk. As she was grabbing her purse and box, her co-worker Nina poked her head over her cubicle. Before Ala could look up, she knew she was there. She smelled like an odd mix of jasmine perfume and spearmint gum, and heard her smacking on the later.
“Hey Ala, girl! Heading home? Got any plans this weekend? Hot Date?” Nina asked with a smile in between chews of her gum. She had been asking her every Friday for the past year.
Joseph. Joseph was the last date Ala had. That was before everything. That was well over a year ago. She missed him. His smile and his skin that her mother would have called “sexy, midnight black”. They made love more often than they talked. The better of his languages was physical touch. She knew very little about him, not even his favorite color or song. But he left shortly after she told him. And that was that.
Ala forced a smile. “No Nina. No date. No plans. Just a quiet weekend at home.” She tugged at her skirt and the top handle of her tote bag, signaling to Nina she was in a hurry.
“Well, see ya Monday then!” Nina hurried off to the next cubicle to chat, repeating the same questions to another unsuspecting co-worker.
“Yeah, see ya,” Ala said, almost robotically, as she headed toward the elevator. She used her thumb reader to open signal her departure. She did not bother to turn around one last time.
***
Ala entered the code to her apartment. As she opened the door, she heard the cavernous echo of her heels against the hardwood floors. There was no cat… no plants… no other living things in Ala’s monotone apartment. She packed everything up in brown boxes against muted gray walls. She left nothing out aside from a few toiletries, a nightgown, and a clear, acrylic cup so that she could drink water from the tap.
Ala sat her bag and shoebox full office items down on the sofa, which was now wrapped in mover’s plastic. She neatly placed her shoes by the front door, as she always did when she got home. Her apartment was barely six-hundred square feet, but she made it work. She didn’t have an incredible view, just one of the brick wall and windows of the next building. It had been home for years. She hadn’t filled it with much, but she made it a home.
Ala had a three crisp, sealed manila envelopes on the kitchen counter. One was for her landlord, a kind, elderly man with a silver, shoulder-length locs. The second was for her cousin, Mallory. Ala had been an only child and Mallory was the closest thing she had to a sister. Mallory’s mother died in a car crash when she was two and Ala’s parents took her in. Mallory’s father was in and out of rehab. Ala’s mother was glad that Ala had a playmate. They were five years apart and Mallory was always following Ala around like a shadow. “Ala, My Ala” was a phrase Mallory said like a song. While Ala had been pretty shy and plain, Mallory was beautiful, outgoing, and gregarious. It was something Ala admired in her little cousin. In recent years, Mallory had gotten married, had a beautiful son, and was a successful doctor. She had eclipsed her older cousin. But Ala was far from jealous. She was proud. Her happiness made her happy.
Ala ran her fingers across the kitchen counters. The last manila envelope she had addressed to Joseph. She remembered how the cold granite felt against her thighs when Joseph lifted her onto the counters for the very last time. There wasn’t a place in the tiny apartment where they hadn’t made love. Again, they never said many words to each other. Joseph spoke in other ways that satisfied her. He spread her legs apart and buried his head between them, his teeth grazing her inner thigh. It made her gasp and moan loudly. She remembered hearing the low, sultry notes of a trumpet playing that night. It was her landlord. He had been a jazz musician years ago. The walls of her apartment were thin. Somehow, her landlord gave them a soundtrack for that evening. It was corny, but it made Ala giggle and Joseph followed suit. “Ala, My Ala” His version being less like a song and more like a prayer. Ala felt her abdomen tighten as she remembered. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes, trying to forget. Ala grabbed the glass and filled it with water. She debated if she should take a pill or not. She decided against it. There was no point.
Ala folded her suit and packed it in the last open box in her bedroom and sealed it. She threw her underwear in a garbage bag, including her pantyhose. Ari changed into her nightgown and ordered some Chinese food. She had no more food in the apartment, and every dish was packed away. With the television and computer sold to help pay for the procedure, it left her in silence. She had her cell phone but once she was approved by The Broker; she had canceled all internet services. She deleted her social media accounts well over a year ago. She had documented nothing exciting and only use them to look at photos of baby Harper, Mallory’s son. His dimples were as deep as the ocean and she’d stroke his face and tell him so, to his delight. She kept one photo of the three of them on her phone that she looked at far more often than she should have. It made her happy.
Ala, while looking at the photo, noticed she had a voicemail. Reluctantly, she played it. It was from Mallory. “Hey Ala, are you ok? I have gotten no word if you are coming to Harper’s birthday party tomorrow? Can you let me know? Thanks! Remember, it’s 2 pm! He said ‘Aunt Ala and me birthday!’ He’s so funny. OH! And can you bring some spare candles? I’m not sure the ones I have will light. Who knows how old they are! Hope you’re feeling ok! Take your meds. Love you!” Mallory sang as she ended her message. Ala sighed, erased it. She threw the phone and her plate of food that was in her lap came crashing down on the floor. She wept into her hands.
Saturday was Ala’s 49th birthday.
***
She woke up before the alarm on her phone chimed.
Ala did as instructed in the Broker’s email. She washed her hair, pulling it back into a low bun. She wore no makeup or jewelry. She wore a loose black shirt, loose pants and slippers. Her underwear was brand new. She wore her glasses, although they said that was optional. Ala had eaten well her last meal of Chinese food before midnight. She brought no personal affects other than her government issued identification. Everything else taken care of. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Gaunt, she was a ghost of her former self.
Ala looked around her apartment one last time. She had taken great care to clean the apartment, especially after she had spilled Chinese food the night before. She’d taken out any and every ounce of trash. All boxes neatly stacked and labeled according to their contents. And the three manila envelopes remained on the kitchen counter. She hesitated before opening the door, thinking that perhaps she should rip up the envelope for Joseph. She paused and thought it best to let things remain as she planned. She turned down the lights and locked the door.
*****
Ala was about 15 minutes early to her appointment. A Nordic-looking woman met her at the front desk of what was a posh office building. They dressed similarly to people Ala had seen earlier and were not saying much as they entered. She barely lifted her eyes to greet Ala. “9th floor” and she handed Ala an access card. “You will still have to wait”, she cautioned and continued to scan her monitors and tablet with her fingers, greeting other would-be clients similarly.
Ala entered the elevators, which were encased in glass, except for their steel doors, and tapped her access card to go to the 9th floor. The elevator whirled with a low hum until it reached her destination. The doors opened and Ala read the steel gray letters on the wall: V-REAL. Before Ala could turn the corner, a heavy-set burgundy-haired black woman in Tiffany-blue scrubs greeted her.
“Mrs. Ala Bryant?”.
Ala looked at the woman whose eyes were kind and warm. “Yes. It’s Ms.”
“I’m sorry. Please follow me.”
Ala began walking behind the woman whose hair and scrub color were both fighting for her attention. She looked at the long row of doors along the hallway, which had frosted windows. She heard nothing. She saw a young, frail white woman, dressed similarly to Ala, being led inside one room by another attendant in blue. Ala caught her eyes for one second and, out of habit, smiled. The woman nodded and followed the attendant inside.
“This is your bay, Ms. Bryant,” Ala’s attendant motioned. “Make yourself as comfortable as possible. The V-REAL team will be in to see you at your appointed time. Do you have your ID?”
Ala handed the woman her government ID. She scanned the back of it and on a screen next to the door, her photo and information swirled. She heard a voice. “Ala Bryant. 49 years old. From DeKalb County, 5 foot 3. 122 pounds. Blood Type: OB negative” The computerized voice rattled off several other facts about Ala before concluding.
“Oh, I’ll need your access card back, Ms. Bryant”. Ala didn’t realize she had been grabbing it in her hand. It was sweaty. She handed it to her attendant, who noticed and let out a weary smile.
“Ms. Bryant. My name is Dena. If you need anything prior to the team getting here, there is a large blue button on the wall. I can’t get you any food, but…” She grabbed Ala’s hand. “If you need me.”. She opened the door to the bay and Ala entered. As she turned around to say “thank you,” Dena disappeared.
The bay was a sterile, white space broken up by silver countertops and a few colored accents. There was counter space that included a sink, soap, and a tiffany blue colored towels. The lighting was low. The chair was akin to a dentist's chair. Next to the chair was a metal stand. It was empty for now.
Ala sat in the chair and leaned back. She wiped her sweaty palms on her black pants and attempted to control her breathing. She tried to remember the breathing techniques Mallory used in Lamaze or the ones she did when she took a hot yoga class. In that moment, she couldn’t remember how to breathe, and it felt as if the walls were closing in on her.
“Ms. Bryant?”.
The voice startled ala. She had heard no one come into her bay. Maybe she dozed off, but she swore her eyes were open. There next to her chair was a tall, slender South-Asian man, and a young ginger white woman. Ala assumed that the man was the doctor, but when he took a step back, she knew the redhead was in charge. She felt uncomfortable having this matter in the hands of someone who may not understand what she asked for. Ala had doubts, but it was far too late.
“Ms. Bryant? I am Dr. Vincent. I’m the doctor here at V-REAL. This is my assistant, Tamil. We’ve read your specifications and we promise to make this go as smoothly as possible. Do you have questions?”
Ala hesitated. She finally spoke. “Every specification?”
“Yes. Ms. Bryant. Everything. As you’ve read in your disclosure information, you find we make sure that the experience is one that is as pleasant as it is painless. We consider any cultural or physical attributes you’d like to incorporate. We strive for diversity in our experiences. I’m going to step out and retrieve your implant and make sure it is input correctly, but in the meantime, Tamil will go over the basics of the procedure. Tamil?”
Aja followed Dr. Vincent. She pressed her hand against the wall and the door of the bay opened quietly. Tamil stood next to her and smiled. He had a gorgeous smile surrounded by a whisper-thin mustache.
“Ms. Bryant. The procedure will be fairly quick on our end. It will feel like hours to you, but will merely be a matter of minutes to us. We will place the implant near your temple and it will access your temporal lobe and amygdala, creating the experience based on the memories that you specified in your instructions. We’ve taken great care to make this painless. Once the procedure ends, the implant will disengage your cerebral cortex, and you will expire. Do you understand?”
Ala nodded her head yes. She lingered on the word “expire” as if she was a jug of milk.
“Will she be there? Truly?”
Tamil smiled. “Yes. She will. It will be as you’ve outlined. Every specificity.” Tamil looked at his tablet and swiped his hand. MRI images appeared on the screen. “How long has the cervical cancer been there, Ms. Bryant?”
Ala let out a sigh. “A year. It’s stage 4. Already. It’s progressing to my liver. I have… well… had months to live.”
Tamil nodded his head and typed a few notes. “Did you not get the vaccine as a child?”
Ala shook her head. “Yes. Well... I was a late teen when it first came out… but it was no use. Genes are genes.” Tamil frowned. “Science is not perfect yet it strives to be. But at least with the virtual reality ending-all-life system, you will no longer feel pain as you are ending things on your terms.”
Ala stared into his dark eyes and laughed.
Her laugh puzzled Tamil. “Ms. Bryant? Is everything ok?”
“Today’s my birthday, Tamil. I am 49. I didn’t want to end it on my birthday.”
Tamil smiled. “Well, happy last birthday, Ms. Bryant. It’ll be beautiful. You will see.”
“Can I leave my glasses on?”
“Yes. You can. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
As Tamil finished, Dr. Vincent entered the room as quietly as she had left. She had a small metal tray in her hands and placed it on the stand next to Ala’s chair. On the tray was one small triangular chip, no bigger than a shirt button. It looked like a puzzle piece. Ala didn’t see any other instruments for surgery except for a syringe filled with golden colored liquid. The liquid confused her Dr. Vincent sensed Ala’s hesitation.
“The chip does the work. We simply are here to make sure it is in the proper place. Once embedded, it transmits a signal to our screens. Again, you’ll feel nothing. We can give you a little something to help you relax.”
“I’d like that. Yes.”
Both Tamil and Dr. Vincent put on their surgical gloves. Ala didn’t even know where they got them from. Tamil rolled up Ala’s sleeve and prepped her arm with an alcohol swab and began administering the golden-colored fluid from the syringe.
“This may sting a bit,” Tamil warned.
That was an understatement. It burned like molten lava in her arms. Ala winced. Before she knew it, she felt a pressure on her temple and the room went dark.
***
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday Love…
Ala opened her eyes. She heard the thump and bass of music faintly playing from a far off place. She looked around. She was on a twin sized bed in a peach colored room. The walls of the room covered with posters of singers: Boyz II Men, Tupac, and Whitney Houston, to name a few.
She placed her slippered feet on the floor and walked over to the dresser mirror. Ala couldn’t believe what she saw. She had on the same black clothes, but she was at least 20 pounds heavier. Her hair was lush, no longer thin from the chemo or radiation. Her skin was luminous. She had her glasses on. The dresser was full of photos of college, her family, and most of all, Mallory.
Ala was home.
Ala opened the door of the room and could smell the faint aroma of bacon in the air. She heard someone humming along with the tune on the radio. She walked down the steps and toward the kitchen. On the wall like an Olan Mills gallery, photos artfully arranged by her father on the walls among the navy and orange floral furniture that was beyond description other than “busy”. Her father’s postal uniform hanging casually on the arm of the sofa, still in dry-cleaner plastic. She stood in the kitchen's doorway watching the woman plate bacon and flip paper-thin pancakes all while humming a tune, swaying her hips back and forth at the yellow electric stove.
“Mama?”
A petite, nutmeg-brown woman with Clare Huxtable hair turned around and smiled. “Oh honey! You scared me! Oh dear Lord, I’m not even done with your pancakes! I wanted them done by the time you came down! I made them thin, just the way you like them!”.
Ala’s mother wiped her hands with nails painted a bright Revlon Red on her jeans and playfully sauntered over to her. “Happy birthday, Daughter!”
Ala froze. She couldn’t believe what she saw. Every detail was there, down to the mole on her chin and the small, wire-framed glasses.
“What is it, baby? You ok?” Ala’s mother looked puzzled at her child’s face.
Ala pulled her mother closer and hugged her tight, resting her head on her shoulder. She smelled like bacon, pancake batter and Paloma Picasso perfume. Tears fell onto her mother’s Guess sweatshirt. Her mother’s bangles chimed a soft melody as she clasped her arms around her. It was 1995 all over again.
“I know this isn’t real but my God... It feels so real,” Ala thought.
“Those better be happy tears! Now come, eat your birthday breakfast before it gets cold.”
Ala’s mama motioned toward the wooden kitchen table and placed a stack of crepe-thin pancakes, a few pieces of thick cut bacon, and a jar of Alaga syrup in front of Ala. Ala watched as her mother got her favorite green mug out of the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee- always too much sugar and a splash of cream. After pouring a generous amount of cane syrup over them, Ala took a bite of the pancakes. They tasted just like she remembered. The radio still blasted the best of the 80s as her mother methodically stirred her coffee, leaning against the kitchen sink. Sunlight faded the wallpaper near the sink yellow and still had the rip in it from when Mallory thought it would be fun to see what was behind it.
“You know why this is my favorite coffee cup? It’s because you used your last $3 on your 4-H trip in 5th grade to bring me a souvenir! Didn’t even have any money left for lunch!” Ala’s mother chuckled, putting the spoon in the sink.
Ala finished her breakfast and pushed the plate aside. Her mother smiled, always pleased when people ate her cooking. She was a fantastic cook. Ala had tried often to recreate her favorite recipe by her mother- liver and onions. She never could cook it quite the way she could. Joseph had tried it once and frowned at the taste of liver. He wasn’t a fan of liver and only wanted to please Ala despite being presented with a subpar version. What had she done wrong?
“Use more flour than just a tablespoon, Ala. Can’t be stingy...” her mother interrupted.
Ala looked shocked. Her mother answered her question in between taking a sip, not skipping a beat. She patted Ala’s hand gingerly.
“Do you know why I’m here, Mama?”
“Yes, I know. Why you picked this day, your birthday of all days, is beyond me! “
“I didn’t pick it. It was the first available day… from the Broker.”
“I see. Well, that’s ok, I guess. So you got to broker this day?”
“I guess you can say that. I had to do it fast. Congress may make this illegal any day now.”
“Well, you have little time now, so catch me up. Tell me everything. You get into Meharry? Did you fall in love? Make me any grandchildren? You know I never pressured you about kids. I wanted you to have your own life. Are you still doing your art?”
“No Mama. After you died… I… I just went to a State. Med school was too expensive and I couldn’t leave Daddy. I had to pay my way through school… especially when his drinking started. He barely held on this his job at the Pot Office. And the art? I just gave it up. No passion for it anymore. I worked a few jobs here and there, paid my way through school. Ended up at The Bureau for 12 years. Nothing special. They never even remembered my name.”
“How could they forget my, Ala! Smart and pretty as you are!” Ala’s mother rubbed her cheek, her nails grazing her slightly. Ala closed her eyes, taking in the feeling of her mother’s hand. It felt so real.
“I never got married, Mama. I didn’t have kids. I had a guy. Joseph. Together for almost 10 years. Off and on. He was my world. He talked little. He wasn’t that well read, but he was kind. We met at work. He was an engineer. He wanted to marry me. Make a lot of babies. Then, I got the diagnosis…”
Ala’s mother stopped sipping her coffee and moved closer to Ala. She grabbed her hand. “Did he leave you?”
“No. I left him. I couldn’t bear it. He wanted to stay! Can you believe that? He wanted to stay and endure the pain with me. I didn’t understand. I mean, I didn’t think we were talking about long-term commitment. And he didn’t care if he was going to have me a month or a year. He didn’t care about the babies. He would bring home adoption brochures or talk about some kid he was mentoring… I couldn’t take it. I told him to leave. I had Mallory, and that was enough. I couldn’t make him go through that. What Daddy went through with you….”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I did. I had to.”
“He’s not your father.”
“Yes, I know. But now I am you.”
Ala’s mother sighed and paused…. “Well, did you make a lot of love at least?”
Ala laughed. A deep laugh she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her mother made “cha-cha” moves with her hips in jest.
“Yes. Mama, all the time… we made love more than we talked, to be honest. He was so fine. Midnight black as you’d say…”
“Hmpf! He was sexy, eh?” Ala’s mother giggled. “And Mallory? How’s that Mal-Gal?”
“She’s great. Still beautiful. A doctor. She got married. Has a son, Harper. He’s 2. Today is his birthday too.”
Ala’s mother smiled. “The way she’d bring home just about any kind of sick animal, that girl would be a doctor. Remember that rat she brought home when she was 6? Talking about, ‘Auntie, he got a broke leg! I got to fix it!’ It was a rat, Mal!”
Ala’s mother laughed. “So… Harper? Named after your father… she loved her some Uncle Harp… bet that baby is beautiful.”
Ala glanced at the clock above the fridge. It had no arms. There were wavy, black lines where the numbers should have been.
“Honey, there is no time here. This ends when it ends… you’ll know when.”
“Do you know why I picked this memory?”
“I have some idea…”
Ala got up from the kitchen table and looked out the kitchen window. She saw the pine tree-lined street of her youth. She saw her mother’s red Ford Contour in the driveway. Ala’s father taught her how to drive in that car a month after her mother died.
“I was so scared to drive that car. It was your car. I thought it would upset you because you loved that car. Dad yelled at me because I hit a pole and dented it when he was teaching me to drive. Mallory was in the back seat in tears.”
“That Harper! He was never a patient, man.”
“I wasn’t mad. I understood. He felt like I had hurt the last piece of you. His last excellent memory was the joy on your face when he surprised you with that car on your anniversary. But I know you would have been patient. You were always patient.”
Ala’s mother touched her on the shoulder. There were a few minutes of silence between them.
“When did they tell you?”
“Last January. They told me I had a year... Maybe less. It was aggressive.”
“Did you make the most of that year?”
“Not really. I did this… and well…”
“Does your father know?”
“We don’t speak anymore. He drinks too much. Not as much as before, but still… too much.”
“Oh. So…
“Mallory will tell him, I am sure. Everything is taken care of. Instructions for Mal. For my landlord. Even for Joseph.”
Ala’s mother took her hand and led her to another part of the house.
Ala followed her mother into the living room and sat on the navy and orange floral couch. She put her head on her mother’s lap. Ala’s mother loosened Ala’s hair from the bun and brushed it. She smelled the Dax grease being applied as her mother hummed and brushed.
“If I would have had a baby girl, I would have named it after you,”
“You don’t think Ada is old-fashioned?”
“No. It’s timeless. Just like you are... were…”
Her mother chuckled and continued brushing. Ala felt her nails parting her hair. Part and Brush. Grease each part.
“That day, on my 16th birthday, you made me pancakes and bacon. Like you always did…. Then you brushed my hair and greased my scalp, just like this…. And I used to hate the grease, but I just loved how you made me feel, like it was art… sculpture… and you braided it in a French braid.”
Ala’s mother kept humming and brushing. Brushing, greasing and humming.
“Later that day… you gave me my first pair of diamonds and we had a fancy steak dinner at Chops. I’m leaving those earrings for Mallory, by the way. The next day, you told me you were sick. And you had little time… you waited to tell me because you didn’t want to spoil my birthday…”
Sunday. Monday. Tuesday…
“And I was so angry with you! So upset you’d keep it from me for so long! But you said you wanted the memory of my 16th birthday to be good, be a good one. And it was the best birthday ever….”
Wednesday. Thursday… Friday… Saturday Love…
“I left Mall everything. Even your wedding band. Mama, you’ve missed so much. I’ll miss so much. Little Harper…”
Sunday. Monday. Tuesday…
Hum and part. Part and hum and grease. Nails against her scalp.
“I even left my landlord something. Tickets to Jazz in the Park. I’ll miss his trumpet…”
Wednesday. Thursday… Friday… Saturday Love…
Part and Hum. Hum and Grease. Braiding hair.
Ala’s face was wet with tears. She sobbed into her mother’s jeans…
Perfume and Pancakes. Orange and navy floral couch.
“And… I left Joseph…. Every love letter I failed to mail. Every email I wanted to send…. I told him he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ll always remember him…”
Marie lifted Ala’s now-limp torso from her lap and cradled her daughter’s face in her hands. “It’s time for you to join me, Ala. Daughter? You ready?”
Ala nodded yes. “I love you, Mama”.
Marie winked and rubbed her nose against Ala’s. “I know.”
“Ms. Bryant is now entering the last phase…” It was Dr. Vincent’s voice.
Ala felt a piercing light cut through her body. Her mother was holding her hand. Ala tried to look at her face, but it became pixilated and distorted.
“C’mon, baby…” Ada extended a hand. “It’s time.”
Coffee cup. More Sugar than Cream. Part and braid. Grease stuck between nails.
“Ala, My Ala…”
… it had been beautiful.
Romantic Flash Fiction
The Book Signing
By TM Richardson
One by one they had come up to the table, books in hand. My nerves didn’t allow for direct eye contact, but I was thankful for the crowd. I wasn’t looking up when I addressed him.
“Who do I make this out to?”
A low, baritone voice replied. I paused my pen.
“I think just initials will do”
It felt as if my heart was beating out of my chest. I looked up and his warm, brown eyes met mine. He was a bit older now. His beard full of grey hair. His hair long gone; a bald head smooth and creamy butterscotch. But this coupled with the glasses simply made him look distinguished.
“You’re here”.
My hands trembled as I took the book from him, his fingers slightly grazing mine in the exchange. There wasn’t a ring. Not even an impression. I opened the front masthead and wrote an inscription. Initials. Just as he requested.
“Where else would I be? When I found out you were in town, I came. I had to.”
He smiled. I slid the book back to him. It felt like 10 tons of bricks on the table. The air was thick between us. Not thick with hatred. Just apprehension.
“When is this over?” he asked. I looked at my agent and nodded. She came over and I inquired of the time, whispering as to not seem rude.
“It’s over in an hour”. I replied.
“At what hotel are you staying?”
“The Fairmont”
“Let me take you out for a celebratory drink. It’s not every day that I meet a published author. Especially one that I know.”
I pondered on the words “I know”. To be honest, knowing would mean that we were still in each other’s lives. It had been years since I’d seen him. Maybe even a decade. He knew me. He used to know me.
“I’d like that”
***
He was waiting for me at the hotel bar. His muscular thighs straddled the barstool with ease, as if he was perched upon his steed. I’d pay good money to see him in a cowboy hat.
I sat next to him. Waiting for me was a glass of my favorite Riesling. He remembered. The first taste of it to my lips was crisp and sweet. My left hand was free. He stroked the top of my hand. I turned to face him.
“Remember when we went to that Reggae club on U Street? And danced until dawn? You wore those jeans…”
“How could I forget? And afterward we grabbed a couple of jumbo slices and a bottle of Riesling from the liquor store? I didn’t get cups so we drank out the bottle”
“And we ate and drank on the hood of my car? Because my AC wasn’t working in my apartment”.
“Yes. It was blazing hot outside yet somehow still cooler than your place.”
I laughed. It felt good to laugh. I hadn’t laughed in the 5 years since Gerald died.
I remembered the sweat of the club. A hole in the wall. Perspiration was dripping from the walls. The DJ played a rocker that made everyone get on the floor. I swayed to the beat with you standing behind me. My arm was up and wrapped around your neck. My midriff was slight showing, sweat dripping down my navel into my jeans. Your hands around my waist not caring. It was is if we were conjoined with no chance of separation between us. This was before...
I didn’t say any of that to him. I didn’t say much of anything to him.
“I still can’t believe you are here”
“Again, I saw that you were in town. I couldn’t let you leave town without us…”
He paused. He inched closer to me. I could smell the smoky rye of his whiskey.
“I feel I owe you an explanation.”
I shook my head.
“No you don’t. It’s been years”
“Still. You deserve it. Now that Gerald is gone…”
Now, the bar’s crowded. The piano player struck up a tune. “Moody’s Mood for Love”
Yes. Gerald was gone. You’re here.
“My room is only a floor above”
(c)- Tati Richardson