When does the mail come, Paolina inquired? She did not get an answer, instead a most impertinent hand flicked up from behind the guest services counter to wave her away. The concierge, embroiled in some software glitch online, did not bother to look up from her screen; only the hand did the talking. Paolina melted. A soft meringue under the jet stream of a blowtorch revealed a dribbling mess inside. It was her usual reflex when confronted, upstaged, or caught off guard. She did not challenge the concierge. Nor did she protest. She did not even ask if there was some misunderstanding. Instead she assumed her default position – meek, resigned, and compliant. If she had had a tail, it would have been tucked way up between her legs. She shuffled off as if it was. Deep down, Paolina wanted to scream ‘fuck you’. She wanted to say ‘fuck you’ to most everyone of late. She was fed-up with being summarily dismissed, and of feeling unimportant. She imagined saying ‘fuck you’ to the clerk at Bergdorf, the doorman at Saks, the aesthetician at Pure Nail Bar, the groomer at Doggie Day Care, the barista at Mildred’s, the cashier at Whole Foods, the receptionist at Dr. Goldblatt’s office; the list went on and on. She rehearsed in silence. Mouthing the dirty words, her lips snapped back taut like rubber bands. The impropriety gave her some semblance of restoration. She felt dangerous. But like the street mime provoking an unsuspecting audience, she was uncertain of how much she could get away with. Despite her self-imposed restraint, she wondered what it would feel like to bring the fantasy to life. Her husband Boris said ‘fuck you’ all the time; at dinner, driving in the car, playing golf, at the theatre, in business meetings, with his tailor, with the door man in their building, the vendor at the Lexington Avenue newspaper kiosk, the delivery guy from Walgreens, his barber at Paul Mole, his gastroenterologist, essentially with everyone and everywhere. It seemed an essential part of his Slavic charm. Not unlike the Tourette’s sufferer plagued with Coprolalia, Boris’s need to satisfy an overwhelming urge to curse had no limits. He did not self-censure, and no one seemed to take offense. She could not figure it out. Was he lucky, self-possessed, intimidating, or simply offering currency in a language that others readily understood and welcomed? Was it a guy thing? Paolina envied the ease with which the words ‘fuck you’ slipped over Boris’ tongue and escaped from his lips. In every instance he was compelled, as if an appointment with destiny could not be altered. No holding back, no regret, and never an apology proffered. She wondered if he enjoyed the release as much as she imagined she herself would. She did not have his courage, aplomb, or sense of entitlement. Yet increasingly she fantasized about how and where she could trial this kind of banter. The day she uttered her first foul words, was the day Boris stopped his. Who knew? She could have had his compulsion managed ages ago. It happened quite suddenly one evening while they were on their way out to the Met. - Boris thrust his right arm out and waved vigorously, while his left hand balanced the umbrella, in near collapse from gusts of rain, over Paolina. The yellow cab streaked passed them spraying filthy water pooling alongside the curb up onto his suit pants, ignoring his rabid gestures to stop. As they retreated to wait under the awning at the entrance of their building, Paolina cocked her head back and yelled a vigorous ‘fuck you’ in the direction of the cab. Her added laugh, mischievous and deep, brought concern to the confused look on Boris’ face. At first blush, Boris seemed to stiffen. He did not look directly at his wife. The Basso voice he’d developed from years of smoking, drinking, and raucous banter eked out a meek ‘Darling, are you alright?’ Paolina did not know what to make of his timid question. Normally light-hearted and nonchalant he seemed to be taken aback and at a loss for words. No matter. She did not give his reaction much thought. She felt powerful. Omniscient. Giddy. During the days following her pronouncement, Paolina noticed a certain pizzazz missing from Boris’ speech. He was not swearing! ‘Darling are you alright?’ she inquired, confident bordering on provocative. His restrained smile, an attempt to cover embarrassment, she suspected, deepened the chiselled grooves in his cheeks. The sound of foul words coming from her mouth continued to stop him in his tracks. He bristled at the vibrations. The two words uttered in her voice, tone, and inflection, no longer held the same meaning, utility, or swagger for him. On her lips they sounded queer, like a penis on the Venus de Milo. On his lips they resembled a Soyuz rocket tipping over on the launch pad. She had commandeered them and he had been usurped. In truth it was as if he heard the words for the first time. She conceded he was beginning to reflect upon his ways. She welcomed the changes in him, the changes in her. She did not examine why Boris was so affected by her newfound mannerism. She did not care to know. It was enough that she had such sway. And most importantly, she finally took up space, no longer ignored. Like a daredevil surfer riding the crest of a wave, she was feeling the power of the surge, pure exhilaration, salt and spray. In time, she imagined which other of his vices she could influence. Boris’ incessant cigar smoking in the apartment was exasperating. Deep, dark, musky aroma, bordering on odour and stink had worked its way into the fabric of the Didier Gomez sofa, the embroidered silk drapery, the Brazilian ebony paneling, and most regrettably the Sultanabad rug. Tobacco residue accosted all those who entered their home, sending them reeling to take precautions. Like the snorkeler who gulps pure air prior to submerging below the surface of the water, her guests could be seen ingesting deep voluminous breaths before entering their residence. Boris was immune. – Paolina found leverage. She soon took up smoking his Cubans, intercepting his overnight deliveries routed through Montreal. In a New York minute, Boris quit cold turkey. His breath fresh and clean as fine linen swaying in an early morning breeze. Their kissing rekindled French and hot, their lovemaking smouldered. He reserved the pleasure of smoking a weekly cigar while walking their Argentine Dogo hound along the Hudson River, he announced one afternoon. Paolina said nothing. She knew when to give and take. Cohiba Esplendidos became her favourite. The Cuban’s bold kick mellowed and calmed her as the tobacco absorbed into her body. She wiled away hours at Davidoff on Madison or the Soho Cigar Bar on alternate Thursday afternoons after meeting her girlfriends for lunch. Taking forty-five minutes to two and a half hours to smoke, she sniffed and licked the wrapper savouring the cigar’s exquisite flavour. She was hooked. Paolina was on a roll. She began to leave her panties and bras on the floor beside the bed at night, her towels on the bathroom floor, and the cap off the toothpaste. Boris never said a word. He stepped gingerly over the piles and cleared a tiny place for his toiletries amongst the lipsticks, face powder, and other beauty products left routinely at the sink. Something was awakening. He quietly changed his ways, emerging tidy and attentive, like a venerated Savoy-trained butler. She was not sure if she liked the changes taking place in her husband of 22 years, but she was thoroughly enjoying wielding her new persona. Taking control suited her. After a year had passed, Paolina traveled back to the establishment where she first encountered the concierge. The concierge was not on duty. No matter. Paolina left a resounding message. In her most elegant cursive writing, she quietly penned a crisp ‘fuck you’ on the hotel’s fancy stationary, sealed it in the accompanying envelope, and presented it, with a broad and affable smile, to the petite brunette behind the counter. Satisfied that her message would be passed on, Paolina turned and crossed the lobby, her Manolo heels click clicking on the marble floor, and exited through the ornate revolving doors. A light breeze picked up her hair in a playful twirl, her step unburdened. - She was over it. In an instant, a year of provocation had reached its conclusion. No longer a wallflower, she had gained stature. She felt confident nothing would erode it. She was unafraid to voice her opinions regardless of what other people thought, gracefully admitted when in the wrong, in public, made choices independent of Boris, and told jokes that nobody got, without giving a damn. Clearly she had arrived! An immediate reversal took effect. No longer needing to bolster herself by uttering obscenities, Paolina was polite, respectful, and charming. She seamlessly reverted back to familiar mannerisms and inclinations. She did not give up her hard won personal agency though. And Boris apparently did not give up his outbursts either. He was back to his favourite expletives on select and important occasions. Paolina did not mind. She knew that she could do it too whenever she liked, with or without her Cubans.
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Harold drums his fingers on the gummy Formica tabletop. The thumb leading the procession picks up the pace. A second cup of coffee now cold, stale, and thin, sits untouched. Donna, he grumbles, late again. He tries convincing himself she’s not worth it; no sense inviting further humiliation. Time to blow this pop stand, he murmurs. He digs his aluminum chair’s heels in, scraping the mustard yellow linoleum and drives back hard into the wall. The metallic screech raises hairs all around in aggravated protest. The woman with the bouffant updo seated at the adjacent table turns away as if to signal her displeasure. Harold pushes up out of his seat; a loping simian asserting dominance. At checkout, he twirls a handful of silver coin on the counter. They glitter like whirling dervish. The cashier’s eyes light up with delight. His hand waves away her adulation and the receipt, before slamming the heavy glass door of the diner behind him. There will be no reconciliation today. Flashing a quick look up and down the street, Harold surveys the oncoming traffic for Donna’s pink Declasse Tornado. He bid pretty low for the beauty at Dixie’s auto auction last June and got her for a steal. Now she’s been forked over in the settlement. All told, the optics are not good. He shields doubt and embarrassment behind cobalt blue Ray-Bans and stands fidgeting in tired cowboy heels a while longer. He’ll give her a few more minutes. Truthfully, he has nowhere else to go. Across the street, he slides into the parked dusty brown Chevrolet slumping low into threadbare upholstery and pushes up the visor for a good sightline to watch her arrival. She never does show. He will say nothing. Bringing up her defiance would be like inviting two bobcats into a burlap bag. Instead, he will call the lawyer in the morning. Another 300 bucks down the drain. Bitch. word count - 323 Published in Mercurial Stories October 12 2018 Bruno's resentment simmered. Estella expressed neither regret nor remorse. The crackling fire between them escalated to a roar. It was simple she insisted, he failed to see things from her perspective. He was clearly misguided and in the wrong. She should not be expected to kowtow to his excessive needs. Her argument was peppered with exaggerations and falsehoods, he implored. She didn't understand what it meant to give and take. She excelled at the take, he hammered back. He would have to find someone else to do his bidding, she barked. Refusing to take any responsibility for her part in their failing marriage, Estella split, absconding with the cat. In time, he got used to eating his TV dinners alone, the couch empty of companionship; the solitary conversations now light and unhurried. In the evenings he looked skyward contemplating how he could have done things differently. He didn’t give it too much thought though, - 'Law and Order' came on at 8. word prompt: crackle, simmer, pepper, simple, and sky-blue |
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