Fiction

A man receives a package with no return address. It contains a pirate-style eye patch and a note. The note is written on perfumed, lined paper. ‘Austin’s; 11:00; I’ll wear the pink camisole.’ A blind date, of sorts. He looks at his watch. It is 10:45. He stuffs the patch in his pocket, runs a comb through his hair and puts on deodorant. He pauses, reaches into the medicine cabinet, and rinses his mouth with Listerine.

The woman is fat -- her fingers as wide as Vanilla Creme cookies, her bright eyes small marbles in the fleshy mass. He likes her immediately. She is, true to her word, wearing an neon pink chemise. Her breasts bulge over the top. They look like billows of meringue. He pulls out the chair opposite her and sits heavily. People are swarming all around them.

“Coffee?”

“No thanks.” She looks at him, smiles quickly. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone. If you wouldn’t mind...” She nods her head toward the vacant table beside her. Her thighs spill over the edges of the wooden chair. He squirms on his own chair, long legs impossibly tangled under the rungs.

“You’re waiting for me.”

“What?”

“You’re waiting for me.”

“You’re not Edward.”

“No,” he agrees. He fishes the patch from his pocket and places it on the table. She blushes, a warm color that might look nice in a sunset. On her it is ravishing.

He holds out his hand in invitation. She stares at it then reaches for the sugar canister. She puts it in his hand. He wonders why she does that.

“This is a mistake,” she says.

“No. There are no mistakes.” He replaces the canister centering it on the encrusted ring it left behind. He maneuvers the patch over his non-dominant right eye. He sees clearly, the soft white of her skin, the pale pink of her lips echoed in splashes of color on her cheeks. He cocks his head and breathes in. He can smell her. She smells like melting snow and green grass. Spring. Everyone has a season, he thinks. He, himself, smells like late winter.

“What do you think?”

“I think you should leave.”

“I meant about the eye patch. Color suits me, huh?” He smiles. He knows his teeth are dazzlingly white; he just had bleached them. She shudders and he feels the smile freeze, lips stuck to his cold dog teeth.

“If you don’t leave, I will.” She braces enormous fingers on the table, ready to heave up and lunge for the door. He leans back in his chair and removes the patch then folds his hands, resting them on his flat belly.

“I know where you live.” He doesn’t, actually.

“There was no return address...”

“And?” He lifts one eyebrow.

“You can’t know that.” She sits back down. He sees a pulse beat in the base of her neck where her collarbone dips. A lovely spot. His eyes travel up the generous slope of her neck to her jowls, then to her pointy chin, a surprise in a face that full. The chin of a pixie.

“You are a very sexual woman, yes?”

She gasps. “That’s none of your business!”

He sees her gritted teeth and wishes he had not offended her. He means no harm. Not yet.

“So, you have a date?”

“I thought I did,” she says and stands, her chair toppling. “You can’t know where I live.”

“You’re right.” He sees that she doesn’t believe him. A thin line of sweat clings to the tiny hairs above her lips. He steeples his fingers, holds them under his chin. “Leaving?”

She bolts upright and moves towards the door. A gaggle of women enters, forcing her back toward his chair where he is waiting without even tapping a foot or drumming his fingers. She glances toward him, doesn’t see the foot that he holds out to trip her and she staggers, then falls to the tiled floor like a hockey player. He grabs the sugar canister and clocks her squarely on the forehead. Glass splinters. No one sees and now she is semiconscious, holding one hand to her head. She is pale as a lily. His favorite flower. A spring flower. Someone shrieks, but he flings her over his shoulder without a grunt. He is proud of himself; this is the reason he works out.

“My sister. Diabetic, you see. Needs sugar,” he whispers to one lady and passes throngs of spectators, the heaving mass of her buttocks warm against his left ear.