Double-Click Flash Fic (3 page)

Back in the office, her dreary work in reception went on as before. Hazel was resigned to her fate.
I will probably die at this desk,
she thought.

Mr. Hardy came storming over. “Hazel,” he said in a harsh whisper, “I told you to mind the toaster oven when you heated up those sandwiches of yours.” Sweat rolled down his forehead. “You nearly caused a fire. It was too close a call.” He paused. “You’re fired.”

Hazel nodded and gathered her things in a box. Shaking hands with staff on the way, she walked out of the office for the last time. As soon as she opened the door to her house, the phone rang. Setting her box down, she hurried to answer. A friendly voice was on the other end – “Hazel, it’s Phil. We have a job opening at the Ministry and I’m recommending you. Can you come in right now?”

“Yes,” she said. “I know the way.”

L
upita and Consuela sat on the curb with ginger ales in their hands. Lupita’s brows were knitted and she picked at her jeans where they were torn at the knees. “Consuela,” she said, “when’s the last time your mom bought you new clothes?”

Consuela laughed and took a sip of soda. “You’re a funny one. You know we only sew our own clothes.” She paused. “But there was that one time, two years ago. Gabriella’s boyfriend José bought her a leather miniskirt. They broke up soon after and she gave it to me. So, in a way,
Josito
bought me a new piece of clothing.”

“I’m not talking about hand-me-downs,” Lupita said. She finished drinking her ginger ale. “I mean, when did you have money, or your mama or your papa have money to buy you something that was pretty and new?” She crumpled the can in her hands.

“Well,” Consuela said carefully, “I can’t say I remember.”

“Just as well,” Lupita said, then tossed the soda can onto a street littered with trash. “At least we can dream.” Consuela didn’t say anything, but looked down at her flip-flops.

“All right, Consuela, I better head back in. I think the screaming stopped. Maybe they didn’t break anything this time. But you never know.” Lupita hugged her friend goodbye. “See ya.”

With a heavy heart, Lupita walked up to the door of her row house and went inside. There wasn’t anything shattered on the floor that she could see, and there was silence. Out of nowhere, her father’s arm flung out and gave her a hard slap. “And take your whore of a daughter, too,” he yelled, and stormed out of the house.

Lupita staggered, then recovered herself. Her cheek stung. She found her mother packing a briefcase. “Get your things, Lupita,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

“Again?”

“No. Forever. Really this time.” Her mother smoothed her hands over a bundle covered with blue tissue in her briefcase. Mother and daughter had tears in their eyes. “I’ll find a job,” her mother said. “We’ll be fine.”

Lupita nodded, then ran to her room. She grabbed her laptop, some clothes, and her piggy bank in the shape of a frog. There was a small trunk under her bed, into which she put her things. On her dresser was a fashion magazine she found in the street. Flipping the pages rapidly, she drank in and memorized the designs one last time. With a flick of her wrist, she threw it into the trash can, then joined her mother in the other room.

“Where is it?” Lupita pin-balled around the apartment, rifling through drawers and turning things over. “I can’t find it!” There was a hysterical note in her voice.

“Where is what?” her mother asked, standing at the stove.

“My frog! My big green frog!”

“Oh, the ceramic frog? Consuela came in earlier to take it back. She said you borrowed it from her.”

“She did … what?!” Lupita groaned. Her hand flew to her eyes. “Why would she do such a thing?”

“Why are you so upset?”

“That frog was a piggy bank. It had all the money I was saving to buy a new dress. A French dress. From Paris.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She came to Lupita and embraced her. “I’ll get it back for you tomorrow.”

Lupita sighed into her mother’s shoulder.

“You know,” her mother said, “I have something for you.” She let Lupita go and went to the bedroom. Returning, she held out her hands, which held a bundle covered in blue tissue paper. “I was saving this for your Saint’s Day, but I think you should have it now.”

Lupita reached out and unwrapped the tissue. In her mother’s hands was a beautiful scarf in a red and gold pattern. The label said: “Louis Vuitton.” The L-and-V symbol dotted the fabric. It was the real thing.

I
’m playing
Diablo XI
and I’m high off my arse. Out of the haze of marijuana smoke, my eyes and hands coordinate with the mouse, keyboard, and monitor. There is a lucid moment when I stab into ogres and skeletons and monsters, but then a cloud settles over me. My reflexes take over, from some ancient, primordial part of my brain, and I complete the level. To celebrate, I reach for a french fry but a celery stick makes it to my mouth. I chomp on it philosophically. My stomach rumbles and I realize I have the munchies. As I eat the celery, I muse on the situation: no junk food, anywhere, ever, in this messed-up country. Not since Rudford passed that bill last year. But weed is okay in his books, apparently. I chow on some baby carrots and ponder my dilemma with a smoke-addled brain. I must have a burger and fries, I decide. I’ll die if I don’t.

I sit back from the computer and close my eyes. Visions of crisp french fries come to me, gooey red ketchup on the side. A memory passes over me: the tactile and gustatory sensations of biting into a hot dog for the first time when I was 10. Tacos. Pizza. Calzones. Buffalo wings. Garlic sticks. And of course, my beloved post-game Doritos and Cheetos. My eyes open. The visions disappear. All that’s left is the chilly basement, a plate of veggies and dip, and this fit, muscular body of mine, damn it to hell. Just one burger, I reason, just one can’t hurt me. Curse the legislation! I will have my fast food.

My mother calls from the main floor and I lumber up the stairs for dinner: baked skinless chicken breasts, steamed root vegetables, and a heap of whole-wheat noodles. Again. I choke it down but hide my displeasure.

The same night, the visions haunt me. I dream of sugary donut holes dancing with golden fries. A giant juicy hamburger grows a pair of lips and talks to me in a sultry voice: “I know you want me. But you can’t have me.” Varicoloured mandalas made of pizza slices spin and mesmerize me like a kaleidoscope. Around 6 AM, I wake up with the taste of grease on my lips. And a plan.

On the outskirts of the city, there is a man who sells contraband groceries – so I’ve heard. How he keeps a step ahead of the law, I don’t know. But I will find him. I shave, brush my teeth, and put on my navy tracksuit. Mom is still asleep. I slip on my sneakers and head out, careful not to make any noise. Then I run.

I run and run, down sidewalks, roads, and alleyways; down the sanitized streets of the city. Gradually, the scenery changes. The houses come in small and bunched together. There are fewer trees here. A dingy dirtiness covers everything like a film. I’m close. I can almost feel hamburger meat between my teeth. I’m getting tired and slow to a jog. As I’m catching my breath, something flies in from the left and pushes me to the ground. I look up and see a gun pointed at my head. “You’re in the wrong part of town, pal,” the man says. I look him in the face – he’s pale. And covered with pimples and scars.

“Hey, man,” I say, getting up. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’re not from around here,” he says, sizing me up. He’s still pointing the gun at me. I notice he’s holding a paper bag in his other hand. I smell a long-lost smell. I ask, “Is that …? Is that a hamburger?”

“So what if it is?” He sneers. I look at the bag, then him. He’s pudgy, and his breaths come in laboured. He’s got zits on his arms. On his nose. Suddenly, all I feel is disgust.

“Like I said,” I say, “I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me … But if I were you, I’d rethink my dietary choices.”

He’s too surprised to say anything, and I take the opportunity to give him the slip. I bolt for home. And I don’t stop.

R
osa went through her scrapbooks and photo albums in a frenzy. Tearing and ripping up the pages and pictures. She found a poem he had written for her and tore it into tiny pieces, too. A white-gold bracelet, a gift from him, lay mangled and charred on the floor, among other broken gifts, mementos. Tears fell down her cheeks. She got up from the floor and grabbed a box from her closet. As she put the fragments and debris into the box, she cursed him over and over. “How could you leave me?” she cried. She reached for the permanent marker on her desk. On the box before her, she wrote “I will destroy you” in thick letters. She pulled the lid over the box and set it down near the door to her apartment.
Soon
, she thought,
soon enough.

The next week, Rosa skipped class on a day she thought he would be home. After showering, she adorned herself with her prettiest skirt and top, black pumps, and a dab of Chanel N°5. She took care with her makeup and hair, tending to them lovingly. Grabbing her purse and the box, she headed out. A short subway commute and a long bus ride later, she was in his neighbourhood. At this point, she had some walking to do.

He always said with pleasure how much he likes living away from the noise of the city.
But you won’t get away from me,
she thought. Soon, his mansion came into view. The gates were closed, but she knew where the secret entrance was, and that’s where she went – around the side. She skirted the mansion until she was at the front door. The box trembled in her hands as she set it down. Hopping in her heels, she moved towards the windows and tried to look between the curtains. It was then that a deep voice said, “Rosa Kalinina,” and she felt a hand on her arm.

Rosa twisted around in shock. It was Oleg, Alexei’s bodyguard. Head down, she allowed herself to be escorted off the property. On the grass, she noticed with heart-rending misery the heart-shaped lawn ornaments she had given him. The sound of the gates clanging behind her shot a jolt through her body. Gritting her teeth, she walked until the house and Oleg were out of sight, then pulled out her phone.

“Hi, Pavel? I have a favour to ask. I need you to work your pyro magic on something. Can you do this for me? I’ll text you the address and send half the payment now, e-transfer. Don’t let me down.” With a beep, she hung up and went to wait for the bus.

She had just reached her apartment building when a policeman accosted her in the lobby.

“F—,” she swore. As the handcuffs were slapped onto her wrists, she said, “He bribed you, didn’t he?”

“I don’t have to answer that. Come with me and you won’t be hurt. The charges against you are criminal harassment and conspiracy to commit arson. You have the right to a lawyer and a fair trial. Come with me.”

“He sure works fast,” Rosa muttered as the policeman led her to the police car.

At the station, she sat and waited for them to throw her into a cell. It was taking a long time – the paperwork had to be filled out first. And she wasn’t answering all their questions.

A grizzled cop came over and removed the handcuffs from her wrists. “You’re free to go. Some bigshot businessman posted bail for you.”

Rosa’s eyes widened. “What’s his name?”

The cop looked at her coolly. “Go on home, before he changes his mind.”

Rosa scurried out of the station and into the warm summer evening. A silver Mercedes was parked on the road, and Alexei leaned against it with his arms folded. A cigarette hung at the corner of his lips. When he saw her, he took it out and smiled. “My little mafia princess has been busy while I was away.”

Rosa lost her breath for a moment. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

He lifted his left hand up for her to see. “I got a divorce. Just for you. So enough with this childishness.”

He threw out his cigarette and opened the car door for her.

“Shall we?” he said.

L
eo:

O, my soul

O, my days

O, sunlight

O, sustenance

Victor:

Every day

Every hour

Every moment

Every breath

Michael:

Each word

Each glance

Each nod

Each kiss.

H
is lover’s body is like the surface of the sun

Radiant, white-lit, searing to the touch.

He can’t stand to be too close: he’ll burn

—the warmth she emanates is pure particle matter—

Or look right at her: he’ll go blind

—the grace of her limbs is an electric flash.

As if with an immolation death wish

Like a sunflower, his body bends towards her, headfirst

Through the scorching heat and the violent light

Senses singeing, rage receding, qualities quaking

Lips find lips and don’t let go

Heart beats to drum of heart

Fuse for a moment

As long as time.