Adelaide Award Anthology 2018: SHORT STORIES, Vol. Two

SHORT STORIES
fallen in love with her, why I wanted to live with her, to remain with
her for the rest of my life. The rest of my goddam freaking life! It was
ridiculous to even consider being with anyone else. The thought of
life apart from her made me feel deserted and lost. We were meant for
each other. We were soul mates. Jane’s blue eyes locked onto mine,
laughing. I could recognize her eyes laughing. I pushed back in my
chair and leaned toward her, holding a secret that had just welled up
in my chest. I couldn’t hold it for even one second.

“What are you smiling about?” Jane said. She was smiling her-
self, peach-colored lips parted coquettishly. On a certain level, she
was just an old-fashioned Texas girl beneath the sexually-liberated,
politically-aware, ecologically-active being that had burst unforeseen
out of the social revolution of the late 20th Century. She wore lipstick
and make-up and sometimes even perfume.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I was just thinking—you want
to get married?” Underneath my veneer of trendy chic, I was just
an old-fashioned guy, too, I guess. Marriage, and kids, and a house
in the suburbs, and a job where I could take vacations and retire
proudly at age 65.

Jane laughed. She held her index finger to her lips.
“You’re joking, right?’ she said. “Married? You’ve always been
so much against it.”
I shrugged. I threw my arms into the air, like a referee signaling
touchdown.
“I’m an idiot,” I said. “I’m an ass. I don’t know what I’ve been
thinking. I love you. I want to stay with you for the rest of my life.”
I reached out to touch Jane’s hair. She leaned in close to me. I
moved in for another kiss, but she pulled away. She laughed. Then
she moved in for a kiss. It was like old times, goofing around and
laughing. It was almost like five years ago.
“What the hell?” Jane said. “What else have I got to do for the
next 50 years?”
“My thoughts exactly!” I said. “So—you want to get married?”
“Yeah, I want to get married,” Jane said. “I’ve been wanting to
get married for a long, long time. I’ve been wanting to get married
since I was a little girl.”

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“So when?” I said. “When do you want to get married?”
“You just asked me!” Jane said. “Let’s just enjoy the feeling
right now. Let’s savor the feeling for a little while. Let’s draw things
out. We can start making plans when we get back to Austin.”
“That sounds good,” I said.
“Wow, I haven’t thought about it for a long time,” Jane said.
“I guess I figured we were never going to get married.”
I touched her cheek softly.
“I apologize for all my B.S.,” I said. “I love you. I’m in love
with you.”
“I’m in love with you,” Jane said.
We sat staring dreamily through the smoke haze at the other
diners for a few suspended moments, holding our secret, knowing
that the other diners were not as luck as us, not with the person they
loved, not content to be in this place, in this time, in this dimension.
“Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” by Boston Pops started up on the
P.A. system.
“Hey, who should we tell?” I said. “We could tell the waiter.”
“Sure, tell the waiter,” Jane said. “But I think I’d like to tell my
parents, too. Do you think our cell phones will work from here?”
“They should work, I think,” I said. “We’re just right across
the border. Give it a try.”
I sipped my drink with eager anticipation as Jane rustled her
cell phone from her handbag and punched up her family’s 210 area
code in San Antonio.
“Mom!” Jane said, winking to me as she held the phone to her
left ear. “Guess what? Kevin and I are getting married!”
“What? When?” I heard the of Jane’s mother squawking in the
background, back home in San Antonio, back in the States. “Oh my
God, that’s wonderful! I know you’ve always wanted to.”
We got back to our car parked in the alley somehow, floating
along, not thinking, just feeling. We drove across the bridge in a
daze of mindless chatter, trying to hold onto the magic. Back in
the U.S. we checked into our hotel, the same hotel as five years
ago, though it was a Super 8 now, traded down in the lingo of the
hospitality biz. But still the white stucco exterior gleamed like a

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palace, there were clean, white, high-counter fiber sheets, vending
machines on every floor, an all-night mini-mart in the lobby, and
a heated pool with hot tub tucked efficiently into a corner of the
lush, landscaped grounds. It was all the things the U.S. was, and
Mexico was not—clean, safe, uniform, secure, without mystery or
secret places. Inside our King Bed room, equipped with a hi-def
TV inside a fake-mahogany cabinet, we dawdled just briefly before
getting down to business, a reenactment, an echo, of our lovemaking
here years before. Holding onto our fervor like a treasured heirloom,
this time we made love slowly, carefully, almost shyly, almost in the
third person, aware of our new mature status of fiancées, as if we
both knew that once we were finished this moment could never be
repeated again.
Steven McBrearty grew up in San Antonio, Texas, in one of those
big, rollicking Catholic families so common in the 1960s. On any
given day, there might be games of pitch and catch in the hallway
or tackle football in the back bedroom. He moved to Austin to
attend the University of Texas and has lived in Austin ever since.
He has published more than 35 short stories, humor pieces, and
non-fiction articles and has received several honors for his writing.
His story collection, “Christmas Day on a City Bus,” was published
in 2011 by McKinney Press. He has two grown children and four
lovely grandchildren.

251



Do-Gooders Gotta Eat Too

By Richard Key

It was the holiday season again, which meant I had to take a wheel
barrow out to the mailbox to bring back all the catalogs. There, on
top, was one from Victoria’s Revelation. The model on the cover was
wearing a red Santa hat and not much else, so I put her between the
Land’s End and Orvis catalogs to keep her warm. Mixed in with the
mail-order floppies were donation requests from various charitable
organizations, some that we’ve never given to. Others we had given
to very recently, and they were hoping we didn’t remember.

Like most folks, I believe in recycling. What this means for
me is, I throw most of my mail unopened into the recycle bin. On
Friday morning, the recycle truck comes through; they pick out the
unopened mail and put it back in my mailbox. Then I do my part
all over again. Together we can save the planet.

In this batch of mail, though, was a request from a mission
society for a donation. I was about to recycle it along with all the
other requests for money. (I know, it sounds like I’m heartless, but
are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?) Well, this piece of
mail contained, in addition to an appeal letter from the founder, the
gospel of Luke in booklet form. The gospel that contains the good
Samaritan parable. That Luke. I aimed it at the garbage can, but it
wouldn’t go in. It takes a certain amount of crassness to trash a Bible,
even part of it. It’s the way I was raised.

I decided on the spot that I could put a twenty dollar bill
along with this gospel booklet and a small note of encouragement

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into a long white envelope. By keeping it in the glove compartment
of the car, I would be ready the next time I encountered a needy
family camped out on a street corner waving their unreadable sign.
You’ve seen those signs—the raggedy rectangles of brown cardboard
with illegible and poorly-worded entreaties for assistance. This way I
wouldn’t have to fumble with my wallet to see if I had a five to throw
out the window. No wrangling with my conscience. No straining
to avoid eye contact as I crossed the street on the other side. I could
almost feel my tiny Grinch heart growing.

Since I was now prepared for good works, of course no oppor-
tunity presented itself. That is, until my wife Amy and I were on a
road trip to Texas. Outside of Houston we were in the middle of
several traffic lanes stopped at a red light when a shabbily dressed
man wandered through the line with the requisite cardboard sign.
Neatly printed in block letters: Homeless Hungry Help. I had to
commend him for his legibility and succinctness, not to mention
the alliteration.

“Could you open the glove box and hand me that long white
envelope?” I asked Amy. St. Francis of Assisi couldn’t have been
faster on the draw. I lowered the window and handed the man the
envelope. “Bless you,” he responded as the light turned green. I told
Amy how I happened to have a gift ready, and she was completely
supportive of my beneficence.

“How much heroin can you get for twenty bucks these days?”
she asked.



About a week after our return home, we decided to check out a new
barbeque joint in another community, Papa Duke’s Barbeque and
Karaoke Bar. Since moving to the South we have become connois-
seurs of pork barbeque and like to stay up on the local BBQ scene.
It was a fair distance up the highway, so we entertained ourselves
with FM radio. This particular station was playing “the greatest hits
of all time.” Unfortunately, the DJ put on this mournful tune from
159 AD which, quite frankly, had no rhythm. I’ve never been fond

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of second century music, I don’t care how many Grammys some-
thing’s won.

As we pulled off the road at the restaurant, our first impres-
sion was ‘A’ for physical authenticity: smokehouse in back, dark
red siding, and ample asphalt parking spaces. The only thing out
of order was the karaoke thing, and that, it turns out, is only on
the weekends. Smoke was billowing out of the smokestack, and the
smell that greeted us was almost worth the trip. The décor was by the
book—that is, nothing fancy, nothing that hinted that the owners
knew more about decorating than they did about food. And the
minimalist approach included Styrofoam plates, plastic forks, and
spongy white sliced bread. That’s how you know the ribs must be
a real prize winner, that and the big crowd on a Tuesday evening.
Only a few sides were offered, principally coleslaw and potato salad.
What more do you need?

After the meal, the soiled napkins and thick burgundy stains
on our cheeks attested to our hearty approval, and we ceremoniously
awarded the place one Michelin pig.

“That was well worth the trip, Mr. Roberts,” Amy declared
approvingly.

I agreed, and commented that the low price was another point
in its favor.

At the cash register, there was no sign asking us to like them
on Facebook, so we liked them in person, the old-fashioned way.
A nice red-haired lady took my ticket and announced, “That’ll be
eighteen-fifty.”

When I handed her my Visa card, she said, “Sorry, hon. We
don’t take no cards and no out of town checks.” Somehow I missed
that notice on the way in. Cash only! So much for the new economy.

I had exactly one George Washington in my wallet. Amy left
all her money in another purse. I thought maybe I could scrounge
up enough change in the recesses of the car to make a respectable
down payment. “I’ll be right back.”

Amy stayed inside as collateral. I found a few quarters in the
console between the front seats, but little else. I checked the glove
compartment just in case there might be something there I could

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barter with. To my amazement I found the long white envelope with
the twenty dollar bill and the gospel of Luke–-the one where Jesus
feeds the five thousand. That Luke. After restoring our credit and
good name, we climbed back in the car and left relieved.

A miracle? A coincidence? It took a while to fit the pieces to-
gether, but I eventually did. And I still sometimes think of that
homeless man in Houston who received the other long white enve-
lope I kept in the glove compartment—the one with my car registra-
tion and tag receipt. That envelope. So, my foray into altruism went
a little off course, but in the end two empty stomachs were filled,
and isn’t that what charity is all about?

256

A Possibility Of Joy

By Max Bayer

The morning was foul. Heavy fog and it looked like rain. Enough
to ruin my weekend at my country place in upstate New York. She
was standing by a dated Ford Bronco. A white cloth flickered on her
antenna in the harsh morning breeze. I drove by slowly, turning my
head. She had a phone to her ear, and she was waving for someone
to stop. I was a few car lengths past when I abruptly pulled over to
the shoulder and backed up.

“Need some help?” I yelled. I was startled by her bright-red hair,
which stuck out in front of the white scarf tied around her head. Her
hiking pants were worn but looked expensive, as did her blue work
shirt. Her hiking shoes were serious. There was a pause in the rain.

“Thank you for stopping,” she said in a husky, deep voice. And
then her voice was drowned out by a caravan of large trucks.

“Better stand further over, it’s dangerous here,” I told her. She
smiled, moving closer to the guardrail.

“My phone is dying. I need to call for help. Thanks,” she ut-
tered as she dialed my phone before putting it to her ear. Moving
further away, she talked furiously. She turned slightly to the right
and then to the left. The minutes ticked by. Tempted to wait in my
car, I continued to stand outside.

She walked over and handed my phone back. “You need a tow
or something?” I asked.

She explained that it wasn’t her car, and she wasn’t about to pay
to have it towed. She looked out on the road as she spoke. Being shy
about being too forward, I offered her a ride, assuming she would refuse.

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When she asked where I was going, I told her to my country
house for the weekend. When she asked, I told her, “206 Route 71
in Hillsdale.” She said she knew the town and was headed in that
direction herself. Having not been around a woman in close com-
pany since Laura, I hesitated. But not strongly enough, since she
thanked me profusely, and seconds later she was sitting beside me
after heaving her rucksack in my back seat.
In response to my feeble attempt at conversation, she intro-
duced herself. “I’m Giselle,” she said with authority in that deep
voice of hers.
“Jason,” I replied. Not a word more about her car or what
would become of it. She seemed happy to be my passenger en route
to upstate New York.
“You seem to be a hiker from your boots and dress.”
“Yes, I’m the outdoor type.”
Having seen a copy of my New Yorker magazine on the back
seat, she asked if I was a reader. I told her I was, but many of the
articles were too long or on subjects of no interest to me.
“Did you catch that article many years ago on the UN missions
to refugee camps?”
I had vaguely recalled finding it very interesting. But before
I could comment, she was well into her story. Chad, the Sudan,
and, more, recently Syria. “These are not camps,” she told me, “but
small cities of hundreds of thousands of people.” She was in ad-
ministration, registering people, assigning them a tent to live by
their ethnicity, explaining how food was distributed and the services
available in the camp.
She went back and forth about her decade-and-a-half with
the UN and her new job as a substitute teacher in a nearby town.
“Burn-out,” she said, and, “Something to tide me over until I get
settled.
“I would walk at night through the camp to show I wasn’t
afraid. No, we were never armed. It would have been useless since
so many weapons were present. It was better to be unarmed to show
our authority, that we didn’t need weapons. We possessed their life-
line to survival.”

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Her hands moved and she looked at me as she spoke. I turned
every so often to see her face. She had big eyes. She took off her wet
scarf, and her red hair was plainly arranged with a part down the middle.
No curls, ribbons, fluff, or anything. She was not wearing earrings and
her lips were bare. There was nothing fancy about this woman.
I did not volunteer but she asked about me. I told her I was
a history teacher in junior high and indulged my passion on week-
ends at my country property. I described how I cleared land, made
a road up my mountain, and built treehouses. She was fascinated.
First time I encountered a woman who was interested in my outdoor
passions. Laura never was.
When Laura picked up her remaining boxes, she wouldn’t
even let me bring them to her car. Maybe because of him sitting
behind the wheel. She kissed me gently on the cheek before taking
off. “Take care of yourself, Jason,” she said with what seemed like
concern.
At first I left all the hangers on her side of the closet untouched.
There was a certain jangle each morning as I took a shirt or a pair of
pants, which set the wire hangers in motion. A jangle that reminded
me of what once was.
And then the large bed. Rolling over at night, I instinctively
put my leg over to her side or my arm. But it only fell on a side of
the bed that remained bare. Since then I haven’t had a good cup of
coffee. She knew how to make it with the right amount of milk. Or
a good sunny-side up egg. Mine always break or are too raw or well
done. I really loved her. I did. And once I almost told her so.
Giselle seemed to have caught a peek of my reminiscing be-
cause she stopped talking. “Do you want some coffee?” I asked as
we approached a rest area. She did. We sipped our coffee in silence.
“It was in Sudan. A woman must have walked for days. She
had one young infant on her back in that cloth they use to carry the
young. And the other on her hip. She collapsed at the camp. I ran
over to her. She pointed to her two babies and signaled for me to
take them. She was giving me her two babies. And then she died.”
I asked Giselle what she did with the babies. “Tried to find
another family to take them and then to forget. Sometimes I had to

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do things which made me want to forget.” I looked at her. She was
staring ahead. Her tears were gone, I thought.

“Sometimes I cut the trees and they hang,” I explained to her.
“Tell me more,” she said with the excitement of a little girl.
I told her about my dog and all the things we did together.
How he ran away for a day and I thought he was lost, and then he
came back in the middle of the next night, exhausted. I never once
mentioned Laura, and she never once mentioned any man.
The weather brightened. I notice the dandelions emerging
through the green grass. The cars, vans, and trucks with their tops
filled with kayaks, bikes, and luggage carriers. It was summertime
and people wanted to have fun. “This Starbucks coffee is really
good,” she told me.
I agreed, telling her that I made mine just right with the milk
and chocolate powder mixture. In fact, it was the best coffee I had
tasted since Laura left. “We should have gotten those cookies too,”
I told her.
“I just love Starbucks cookies,” she said. I looked at her and
she looked back. I couldn’t keep it up for long since I had to look
back at the road.
And now the sun was shining, bright and strong. “This is going
to be a great weekend,” I told her and then proceeded to tell her
all the projects I had planned: to put more rocks on the side of my
road, bring some logs down from the mountain, and paint one of
my small sheds. She listened with such interest in a way I never ex-
perienced with any woman before. She wanted to know every detail.
How big are the logs? How do you move the stones? How steep is
your mountain? I couldn’t get the answers out fast enough before a
new one popped out of her mouth.
I glanced occasionally at her face. Plain in adornments, yet so
vibrant in expression and a sense of anticipation of what I would say.
The driving seemed effortless. The road nonexistent. Our destination
irrelevant. Only Giselle and me talking. I wanted to touch her but I
dared not. I wanted to feel her skin. But I dared not.
The coffee had gotten to me, and I had to stop at the next rest
area. I wanted to continue our joyous conversation, so I parked by

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the standing area and quickly jumped into the rest center. Peeing as
quickly as I could, I hurried back to my car. I looked. But it wasn’t
there. I ran over to the parking lot, thinking that maybe Giselle
parked it since she also had to go. Yes, I left the keys in it. Why not?
I was only going to be gone for a second. I kept walking around
the parking lot. I looked behind the service area building. I was left
stranded in this service stop. It was then that I realized Giselle, my
traveling companion, had stolen my car.

My few moments of happiness shattered in an instant. My
trust betrayed. Maybe she needed the car for something. She would
return. I waited for over an hour and then called the state police.

“She was tall, had a squeaky voice and jet-black hair,” I told
them. “No, I never met the woman before. This is not a domestic
dispute.” The troopers looked dubious. “No, she didn’t have a
weapon. She was very nice and we had a good conversation.” The
more I told them, the more dubious they appeared. They were nice
enough to bring me to the nearest Avis Rent A Car.

“Thanks, I appreciate the ride.”
“Don’t be picking up strangers. The nicest woman can turn
out bad,” they yelled back.
I drove my Ford Fusion rental up to my house. Being dark, I
couldn’t find the right key. After fumbling for five minutes, I got
the door open and realized that I didn’t have my high blood pressure
medicine or that goddamn New Yorker I was reading. Or all the tools
in the trunk of my car. That fucker, how could she do that to me?
I tried to sleep. That bullshit story she told me about working
in the refugee camps. I had to call my insurance company. I would
tell them I had every tool I owned in the car. Everybody was ripping
each other off, so why not me?
Not getting to sleep until 2 a.m., I slept late the next morning.
I was awakened by the goddamn birds chirping away like the world
was nice. I walked over to the window and was blinded by the sun.
It was such a beautiful day, but I would wallow in self-pity. But not
before that shitty cup of coffee with too much milk and sunny-side
up eggs that were too runny. I thought about the enthusiasm in
Giselle’s face as she listened to my stories. You can’t fake that. There

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was something between us. Maybe she needed the car for an emer-
gency. She should have asked. I would have accommodated her.

“No, she has not returned the car,” I told someone from the
state police who had called. Why did they continue to believe I knew
Giselle and we had an argument? I had to get to work. I put my head
down and moved on. It didn’t take but an hour before I nearly tore
into my thigh with my chain saw. Luckily only my pants and a little
skin was cut. Still a trip down to the house for some alcohol and
bandages. And that’s how it went all day.

I looked at the four chopped-meat patties I had bought.
I cooked one and would save three for Sunday. The worst damn
burger I’ve ever eaten. Cooked it too much and ate it dry. The beau-
tiful evening made me sick. Sitting on my porch, I looked up at my
mountain. I was truly alone, left to wallow in the anguish of my
freedom. I was free to do whatever I wanted but where was the joy?
With Laura at least I had a possibility of joy.

Another nice day and more shitty coffee and runny eggs. I
poured more alcohol on my bloody thigh. I cringed. But good, let
it hurt. I heard a knock at the door. Probably my neighbor, Lew,
wanting to borrow a tool. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

I opened the door. And there she stood. Wearing the exact
clothes as Friday was Giselle.

“Here,” and she handed me the keys to my car. “Sorry for the
inconvenience.” She turned and walked away.

I hesitated. Noticing only my car, I asked, “Where are you
going? You don’t have another car?”

“I don’t know,” and she continued walking.
“Wait,” I shouted. “I was about to make some burgers since I
didn’t like my breakfast. Want some?”
“Will they be well done or rare?”
“How do you like them?”
“I like them rare. And what are you serving with the burgers?”
she asked.
I told her that I would be serving asparagus, and she wanted to
know if I cooked them in olive oil, butter, or margarine. I told her
olive oil. And then she asked about dessert, and I told her, “I still

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have some ice cream,” and I told her, “Vanilla,” before she could
ask what flavor.

And I have to say those were the best goddamn burgers I had
since Laura left. With those onions and ketchup, they were heaven.
And guess what Giselle said?

“Those are some good goddamn burgers, and from now on I
want to eat your burgers all the time.”
Max Bayer.  Writing under his pseudonym, Max Bayer has been a
frequent contributor to literary journals. He came to writing late in
life when he discovered that his parents—Holocaust escapees—left
a daughter in Germany when they fled to America. He has worked
as a health care consultant while pursuing his passion for building
and writing. His non-fiction writings have appeared under his name,
Peter Breyer.

263



Fearing Australia

By Amada Matei

“Let’s go to Australia,” said Monti, smiling at her husband. When
she smiled, the creases around her eyes deepened and her laugh lines
revealed sixty-five years of happy.

“What are you talking about?” Ollie said, while perusing his
morning paper. He grabbed a pair of scissors and cut out an article
he had finished reading. He wrote the day’s date along the margin
with black ink and set it aside on top of three others.

“I’m talking about taking a vacation to Australia.”
“What’s in Australia?” Ollie asked, turning back to the news-
paper which now resembled swiss cheese. He left the crossword
puzzle intact. Ollie enjoyed doing them in the evening while sitting
up in his bed. Monti was usually beside him reading a book.
“Koala bears, kangaroos. The Coral Reef. The Sydney Opera
house.”
“Don’t we have a zoo about twenty minutes from here? I think
they have kangaroos and koala bears.”
“Ollie, you know it’s not the same.”
“Ok. So, go to Australia and look at koala bears. Don’t they
just eat one type of leaf all their lives?”
“I’m not going alone, you old fool. I meant both of us.”
Ollie gawked at his wife. After forty years of marriage, he still
adored looking into her eyes, blue like the clearest sea. “No. I can’t.”
“Why not? What else do you have to do? I’ve only been retired
for a month now and I’m getting…I don’t know. I don’t feel like
myself. I think I’m getting antsy.”

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“You know why I can’t go.”
“I know, I know. I recently read an article about this woman
who was afraid of flying. She went to an acupuncturist and she was
cured in five sessions.”
“I doubt our insurance will pay for that. Besides, that stuff is
nonsense. You believe everything you read.” Ollie returned to his
paper.
“Do you want to look at some brochures?”
“Brochures of what?”
“Australia.”
Ollie folded his paper at its crease and set it down louder than
he intended. He took a deep breath and let it out as if blowing out
a flame. “I cut out an article last week of a pilot who was fired for
showing up intoxicated. The stewardess turned him in because she
smelled alcohol on his breath. I can show you the article. I filed it
away.”
“That’s good. He got caught. There’s systems in place for stuff
like that and the system worked. Besides, I always dreamed of trav-
eling during our retirement.”
“You can still go. No one is stopping you.”
“What if we vacationed somewhere else? We can drive to Ni-
agara Falls. Or the Grand Canyon. Or we could drive to Los Angeles
and take a cruise to Hawaii from there,” said Monti.
“I heard something on the news the other day about a ‘stay-
cation.’ Have you heard of this? To save money, people are staying
home and just going to different places in their own city. Museums.
Aquariums. Fancy restaurants. Just pick a fancy restaurant. I’ll take
you there. You mentioned some restaurant once. The one next to
the mall, near that bookstore. Actually, I read that that bookstore
might be going under. Nobody is buying books anymore. It’s all
electronic now.”
“I don’t even know why I talk to you. I should have married
Rob Morgan when I had the chance. He was a world traveler. He
would have taken me in a second.” Monti threw a pen at Ollie and
watched it crash against his arm.
“Well, call him up then. He’ll be happy to hear from you.”

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“I wouldn’t be happy to hear from him. Especially since he’s
been dead for a year now.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes, you old fool. You went to his funeral. You spoke with
his brother about the upcoming presidential election for almost an
hour. Then you ate that girl’s cookie.”
“I didn’t know it was her cookie. Why do you keep bringing
that up?”
“You do remember that funeral then?”
“Yeah. I guess I do. Poor old Rob,” Ollie shook his head.
“We are going on vacation. Together. And not here.” Monti
folded her arms across her chest and stomped out of the kitchen. She
was hoping Ollie would at least comment on her new haircut. She
normally kept a tight perm, but now she straightened it in a short
bob. She didn’t want to say anything to him, just to see how long
it would take for him to notice. It had been over a day and a half.
Monti stomped into her bedroom, her flower-patterned night-
gown flowing along with her. The sun had made its way through the
sliding glass door as the dusty clouds parted ways. Red and orange
leaves, pinned down by fat rain drops, lay all over the balcony. Ollie
watched her as she closed the door behind her.
He would have liked to take his wife to Australia or anywhere else
for that matter. They discussed it plenty when Ollie was getting ready
to retire from the Plain Dealer as a newspaper reporter. They used to
drive from Cleveland to Chicago once every other month to visit their
son Lucas and his family. That was about as adventurous as Ollie was
willing to get. Their son now did most of the traveling. Monti had had
enough of seeing the same highways and flat terrain and Ollie had had
enough of his wife’s nagging. Two years after his retirement, she was
still waiting to see the sun over a different hemisphere.



The following day, Monti went about her business like it was any
other day since her retirement. She dressed and went for her morning
walk in the park alone. On her walk back to the car she called Ollie

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on her cell phone. Lucas had bought her a phone last Christmas
insisting she never go walking alone without it. She hated it at first
saying it had too many doodads and such. But she began to love it,
especially when she learned how to use the built-in camera and store
pictures of her grandchildren.

“Hello,” Ollie answered.
“Ollie, it’s me. I’m walking past this adorable café that just
opened up a few weeks ago. Do you want to meet me here for lunch?”
“I’m still in my pajamas.”
“It’s eleven thirty for Pete’s sake. Put on some pants and come
over. They even have tables set up outside like a little French bistro.
The menu looks delicious.”
“We have plenty of food in the house. What about that leftover
chicken you made yesterday. You want it to spoil?”
“Have it for dinner. Ollie, you don’t want to have lunch with
me? This is the staycation you talked about.”
“Monti, I don’t feel good. Besides, ‘The People’s Court’ is
coming on soon.”
“Fine. I’ll go by myself.”
“You’re going to eat there by yourself? That’s crazy.”
“Why?”
“People will look at you. They’ll wonder why you’re eating
alone.”
“Then I’ll tell them my crotchety husband refuses to eat with me.”
“Just come home Monti. I miss you. I want you to sit with me.”
“Fine. I’ll order something to go.” Monti settled on a pear and
bacon tarte and cheese quiche.
Once home, Monti curled up on the couch next to Ollie. They
ate in silence. She ate her tarte and quiche and Ollie ate his leftover
chicken. The “People’s Court” was a rerun. Ollie did not seem to
mind. About a half hour later, a roaring whistle circulated through
Ollie’s nose. Monti kissed his warm forehead and turned to her novel.
The next morning Monti was still in bed when Ollie awoke.
Not to disturb her, he shuffled to the kitchen alone and instantly
missed the bouquet of coffee and bacon at the ready. Ollie shook the
coffee maker, opened the top and peered inside. He scrounged the

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cabinets for anything resembling coffee grains. A small bag of whole
coffee beans sat in the pantry near the fridge. He read the package’s
instructions and inhaled the bitter scent emanating from the bag.
The coffee would have to wait for Monti.

Ollie walked barefoot outside his front door to fetch his paper.
He sniffed the dewy newspaper and its inky aroma. Besides the smell,
Ollie also needed to hear the snap of flattening it out on the table.
It was crisp and cold. His scissors and black pen were at the ready.

He read two paragraphs of the front page and then stopped. A
chill ran down his spine and a feeling of utter terror flashed in his
mind. Ollie tiptoed into the bedroom and placed his hand on his
wife’s uncovered arm. She felt cold. She didn’t respond when he
called her name. He expected her to turn around and scold him for
interrupting her sleep, or at least beg for five more minutes.

“Monti, wake up.” Ollie shook her arm, harder this time.
“Wake up. I need you to wake up.”

She did not stir.
“Please Monti.” He continued to shake her listless body. She
remained silent. He combed her hair with his callused hand and
noticed how it slid smoothly through his fingers. Ollie laid down
next to her icy body and wrapped his arm around her plump waist.
He could smell the vanilla scented night cream on her face.
His sobs soaked through her nightgown. “My God Monti. I
love you so much. I always loved you. I’m so sorry that I haven’t
been a better husband. If you wake up, I’ll go to Australia with you.
Today. We’ll go today. Please.”



“Dad,” said Lucas. “I’ve been calling the house all morning. Where
are you?”

“Hey Luke,” said Ollie on his cell. It was perhaps only the
third time he ever used it. He hated talking on the phone to begin
with. He never understood why anyone would want to carry a phone
around with them everywhere they went and feel compelled to an-
swer ever irritating ring. “I’m at the airport.”

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“At the airport? Where are you going?”
“Well at the moment I’m not going anywhere. I’m in the car
in the parking lot. I’m just watching the planes.”
“Dad, I’m worried about you. Why don’t you move here with
Debbie and me? You’ll be with the grandkids every day. There’s
even a rec center by us with great programs for seniors. You’ll love
it here.”
“I’m just wondering if any of these planes are going to Aus-
tralia.”
“You need to stop this. Mom wasn’t blaming you. She always
understood why you’re afraid to fly. She understood about Uncle
Roy. No one blamed you for what happened to him.”
“Damn it, Lucas! My wife asked me one simple thing. She
wanted to go on vacation with me. What moron of a husband would
say no to that? And I couldn’t take her. She wanted to go to Australia
and I couldn’t take her. Well, I decided that I now need to take her.
She loved the beach, so her ashes will meet the beach in Australia. I
have to. I have to find a way.”
“Ok Dad. I hear you. How about I talk to Debbie? Maybe we
can plan for all of us to go. We’ll plan something together.”
“I’d like that. That’s a good idea Luke.”
Monti had once given Ollie an article on fear immersion
therapy and he had set it aside as nonsense. Ollie had since dug it
up from his drawer and decided to give it a try. Sitting in the airport
parking lot seemed like a good first step. He would imagine himself
on one of those planes with Monti by his side.
Weeks of sitting at the airport had finally prepared him for the
next step. He parked his car and strolled through a corridor leading
him into the building and to a long row of ticket counters. The chaos
of travelers both frightened and mesmerized him. Swarms of people
buzzing back and forth irritated his ears. Ollie stood in the middle
of the confusion with children running past him and men in suits
tinkering with their cell phones as they hurried to their destinations.
One man bumped into Ollie’s arm, knocking him forward.
“You can’t just stand there!” yelled the man in the suit as he
stomped past. “You’re in the way.”

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Ollie stood statuesque and confused as what to do next. The
heavy aroma of coffee in the air reminded him of Monti making her
own brew. His body began to shake and his chest beat faster. Ollie
rubbed his face vigorously with his large hands. He looked around,
not sure at what, until he gazed upon a dark-skinned woman dressed
in a black suit and a crisp white shirt walking in his direction. Her
name tag read ‘Adrienne.’
“May I help you sir? You look a little lost.”
“I, uh. I wanted to see if, if, if I could go to one of the terminals
and, uh wait for my friend to arrive.”
“I’m sorry sir, but the only people who are allowed through
metal detectors are passengers with tickets. We have a waiting lounge
in luggage claim. You’ll be comfortable there.”
“Does the lounge have windows to watch the planes land?”
“Not really, no. When is your friend landing?”
“Well, I’m not really sure.” Ollie searched the massive hall
around him as if looking for someone.
“Ok. What’s his name? I can look it up for you.”
“No. No. That’s Ok. I’m not going to bother you. Thanks
for the help.” Ollie turned around and walked out with his beating
heart pumping in his throat. Monti was probably up above shaking
her head, either disappointed or laughing hysterically. Ollie was sure
of it.
Days later, he returned to the airport and planted himself where
he could stay out of everyone’s way. Ollie watched people who were
in a hurry and people who had time to spare. He watched people
wait in line to be checked out at the counter and trade their baggage
for a ticket. Everyone was going somewhere and no one appeared
terrified to get there. Plenty of husbands were accompanying their
wives, some with smiles on their faces. Joking, laughing, yawning. At
least a couple of them must have been going to Australia. The pro-
cess seemed so simple. Check your luggage. Get through the metal
detector. Climb into the plane. Go to Australia. Easy.
Some time passed when Ollie noticed Adrienne walking to-
ward him. Today she wore a brown pencil skirt and a beige but-
ton-down shirt and her charming smile.

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“Are you still waiting for your friend sir?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Security is very tight sir. If you don’t belong here, you need
to go home. Otherwise just tell me what you need.”
“Well. This is embarrassing. But, uh. I guess I’m here because
I’m afraid of flying. It’s a hard thing for an old man to admit. I
thought maybe this would help me get over that. But all this com-
motion is still too much.”
“I can get you some resources. I have numbers to support
groups or therapists, hypnotists. We even offer a class here at the
airport for people with flying anxieties. It’s not unusual.” “I really
don’t have time for that. I just need to get my wife to Australia. She
always wanted to go and I never let her. I never took her anywhere
because I’m too chicken to fly. Our anniversary is coming up and I
really need to do this.”
“I understand. But you also need to understand that if someone
finds you suspicious, you could get kicked out by security. There has
to be an easier way. Go see your doctor. Come back when you’re
ready to fly with us.” Adrienne reached into the back pocket of her
skirt and pulled out a white business card. “If there’s anything I can
do to make this easier, just let me know.”
Ollie went home and sat at the kitchen table, a handful of old
newspaper clippings were sprawled neatly on the table. He sat lis-
tening to the ticking clock behind him. He never realized how loud
it was. He remembered picking it out with Monti when they first
moved into their home. She loved it because of its unusual brown,
thick frame and antique looking face. He thought it was hideous.
The articles before him told stories of tragedy and survival.
There were plane crashes where no one escaped death and other
collisions where the majority survived to tell their stories. There
were exposés of the victims and their detailed ordeal. Other articles
concentrated on timelines of the history of flight and vignettes of
famous plane crashes, from the Wright Brothers to the unsolved
missing Malaysia flight.
A couple clippings had turned yellow and stiff with age. The
back of one article in particular, advertised a brand-new Cadillac for

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$4,500. The car dealership had since become a supermarket. Ollie
turned the clipping over and stared at it. It was half a page in length.
A deluge of tears blurred his vision. The photograph on the front
page featured a young man looking distraught. He looked about
seventeen-years-old. The caption read ‘Oliver Mann, plane crash
survivor, weeps over lost brother Roy Mann.’

Ollie remembered his mother being terribly ill. His father
thought it best that his boys go live with their aunt while their
mother recovered. It was Ollie’s responsibility to care for Roy until
his aunt met them at the airport. Ollie reread the editorial. He was
quoted, “My brother was only ten years old. I remembered to put
my seat belt and oxygen mask on like the stewardess told me. I was
so scared I forgot to check my brother. I was supposed to take care
of him. How am I supposed to tell my parents?”

Ollie had read that article at least one hundred times before
filing it away. Monti reassured him that he was not responsible for
his brother’s death. He was only a boy she told him. Ollie’s father
had commented that maybe Roy would have survived if his seat belt
was fastened securely. Monti insisted that maybe his seatbelt was
fastened but the chaos would not allow Ollie to remember. Maybe
the seatbelt was futile.

Ollie revisited the piece for the first time in years. For a mo-
ment, he could smell burning fuel and thought he felt heat radiating
from his skin. He took a deep breath and laid the article back on the
table, fearing his sweaty fingers would smudge the ink.



“Dad, where are you? Lucas asked.”
“I’m on a plane.”
“On a plane? A plane to where?”
“I’m taking your mother to Australia.”
“Are you serious? You said you would wait and we would all

go together.”
“I’m sorry son. Today is the first-year anniversary of your

mother’s death. Before I finally decide to get on this stupid plane,

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I’ll be dead. I can’t wait anymore. I took her ashes and I plan to
let her lay on the beach for eternity. She’ll be happy there. I love
you son.”

Ollie took out an orange medicine bottle from his coat pocket
that his doctor prescribed him to ease his tension. He swallowed a
tablet with a swig of bottled water. He put on his headphones, ready
to battle his fear along with Mozart and Mendelssohn. With both
hands clenched over the armrests, he closed his eyes and thought of
Monti. His heart began to race as he heard the motor roaring. ‘I can
do this,’ he murmured to himself. His eyes were shut tight and he
breathed deeply waiting for the plane to take off.

Ollie’s medication kicked in. The plane began to taxi down the
runway. Ollie’s muscles sank into the chair. His eyes felt droopy.
His heart relaxed. The plane took off. Ollie’s eyes closed tight as he
muttered a prayer. He felt his body being lifted into the air. A force
pushed him deeper into his chair. He heard a pop in his ear and he
shut his eyes tighter. Pop, pop. His un-manicured fingernails dug
into the palm of his hands. Another ten minutes past. Ollie allowed
himself to open his eyes.

Monti, I’m flying. You’re going to Australia, he said to himself.
Ollie felt sleepy and his body exhausted from anticipation.

A half hour into the flight, the pilot’s voice blared throughout
the cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve turned on the fasten seat
belts sign and asked the flight attendants to be seated. We seem to
be flying into some nasty weather and experiencing some turbu-
lence. It’s going to last for a few minutes, but just relax and we’ll get
through it momentarily. Thank you.”

Amada Matei works and lives in Cleveland, Ohio. She is a grad-
uate of John Carroll University and holds a Masters in Sociology
from Cleveland State University. By night, Amada supervises a child
abuse hotline, and by day, she’s writing her first novel. She has con-
tributed other works to Adelaide Magazine and was a finalist in 2018
for the Adelaide Anthology short story contest.

274

On Falling

By Sydney Samone Wright

Lavender Hill, Texas – Fall 2016

“…and I chose the road less traveled.” Wren Wright laughed to
the empty, frosted field in front of him, trying to convince himself
that it was his choice to be alone. What Wren didn’t address was
the question of when he’d choose company instead of solidarity, or
if he was truly capable of a real relationship. What he didn’t know
was that this choice wouldn’t be solely his own. Someone had been
watching him since he arrived in Lavender Hill, and they were many
steps ahead of him.

It was the final week of the semester and most students had
finished their exams and gone home for winter break. Lavender Hill
University was not unlike a rack of bare bones now: frigid and gray,
extremely unusual for Texas at this time of year. It was at least 25
degrees. The blackbirds that usually badgered the students for their
chips and sandwiches seemed to be frozen to the top of the light
posts, their eyes hollow and always watching. When the sun sank
deep, the birds would gather and swarm, creating snake-like patterns
across the sky.

Wren had stayed instead of returning to New York for the
break. His family was scattered across the west coast, and he wasn’t
that close to any of them anyways. There were unspoken grudges
for him abandoning them for the bright lights of New York when

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he was just eighteen. And now he was a visiting theater director to a
small university in the middle of nowhere, Texas. New York hadn’t
brought the riches he’d dreamt about, even after a rough fifteen years
of scraping through school and begging for work. “I’m still young,”
he said to the vacant quad. But the truth was, Wren felt old. His
bones ached with the cold and he imagined if his dreams were to
manifest before him, they’d have even darker under-eye circles than
he did.

His fingers brushed the thin film covering the pack of cig-
arettes he’d purchased when he first got into town a few months
ago. He didn’t smoke. He hated smoking, actually. His mom had
gotten lung cancer from years of smoking when he was a preteen.
He’d watched it change who she was: from bright, artistic mother to
bitter, abusive nanny. She didn’t fight. She gave up the minute she
got the news. His father seemed to only be good for working and
making sure there was at least a frozen pizza in the freezer. Wren
all but sprinted out the door as soon as he turned eighteen. The air
had to be lighter somewhere. He figured the East coast was a good
place to start.

He didn’t plan to smoke the cigarettes. He didn’t even plan to
open them. He just had the urge to buy them at the first convenient
store he saw, so he got them. They hadn’t left his pocket since. “You
know, I wonder why this damn town doesn’t give more. I’ve given a
lot, and I feel like I have nothing for myself.” Wren imagined a man
with as much passion about the arts was sitting next to him. Maybe
with a thermos of hot cocoa. Or perhaps a thermos of scotch. “Come
to Lavender Hill, they said. We need someone with your vision.
We need someone with your amount of adventure and class. That’s
exactly what we need. What about what I need! Class my ass…”
The non-existent man beside him nodded his head in agreement.
His eyes were dark and hollow, as if he were the father of the birds.
Their beady eyes continued to watch. Wren rose from his seat and
began to walk towards his apartment a few blocks away, pulling his
coat closer to his body.

Past the food court he could hear the instrumental version
of Christmas music playing. The air was filled with the smell of

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biscuits and chicken, a breakfast no one would have today. A few
steps past the food court and the air returned to its hollow smell of
pure cold. It was like the clear, blue-tinted film hugging the pack of
cigarettes in his pocket was wrapped across his face, making it hard
to breathe. The air seemed packed with frozen crystals, pricking
at his throat as the haze made its way to his lungs. He pulled the
pack from his pocket to observe its wear since he’d purchased it.
The cardboard edges were smooth where they should have made
a sharp corner.

He turned onto the small street where his apartment was. The
building was long and studded with multiple shades of red bricks.
Wren had never walked this road with someone before. He was
always alone. He imagined, for once, he wasn’t. “You know,” he
said, acting like he was shy, “I had a great time tonight.” Now he
suppressed a laugh at the oddity of what he was doing. “Would you
like to come up?” His voice was loud in the empty space between
buildings, far from the seductive tone he was going for.

Wren pulled the leather glove from his hand to help find the
house key folded deep in his coat pocket. He noticed a shadow on
the dorsal side of his hand when he pulled it out. Even pushed into
the filtered light of the day the shadow remained. Then it occurred
to Wren that the shadow was beneath his skin, a bruise. It wasn’t
tender when he pushed against the translucent membrane where his
blue veins threaded through. It was almost unrecognizable. “Must be
from the cold,” he said, and slipped his glove back on.

Three floors of steps and his apartment door was before him.
The hallway made the building seem like the rooms would be very
nice. The walls were painted a deep, forest green and molded with
intricately carved, white strips. The floors were a dark stained wood
and usually polished. It always smelled like citrus. The apartment,
however, was vastly different. There were drafts no matter the
weather. Clusters of black mold spotted the bathroom ceiling due to
the lack of ventilation and were uncleanable for Wren because of the
texture of the paint. The appliances were outdated. The walls seemed
to be extremely thin since Wren knew exactly how his neighbor’s
girlfriend liked her morning sex. A bit of hair pulling. No hickeys.

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But Wren saw no reason to cause a fuss to his landlord. This situa-
tion was only temporary, after all. He’d be back in New York to his
apartment that wasn’t much better than this, in only a few weeks.

As he pushed his key into the door handle, someone emerged
from the alcove by the maintenance room. Wren’s keys juggled and
dropped from his hand when he noticed movement in his periph-
eral. “Oh, um, Cleo. Hello, I didn’t see you.” He realized that his
heart was fluttering, but it made his stomach churn and all he really
wanted to do at that point was sit down to try and stop it.

“Hi, Wren. I’m sorry I startled you.” Cleo worked in the De-
partment of Health Sciences, but she also helped in the theater de-
partment from time to time. She had a degree in performing arts but
finished her college degrees in the sciences, a more practical choice
in her eyes. Wren had seen her here and there during rehearsals, but
never here.

He laughed at the thought tumbling through his mind. “Did
you, follow me here?”

Cleo smiled at the question, but her eyebrows were raised in
clear amusement. “Actually, I just moved in a few days ago.” She
pointed to the door beside her. Her keys were still hanging from the
handle. “I recognized you and thought I’d say hello.”

Wren could feel a tightness growing in his chest. He smiled
with tight lips and returned to unlocking his door. “Actually, would
you like to join me for a drink? I could really use the company,”
she said. She tried her best to not let herself hope too much. She’d
been just as lonely as Wren was. He locked his apartment door and
followed Cleo into her brightly decorated apartment.



“The fall of man, people! What I’m seeing here is a timid Eve and an
indecisive Adam. This is a modern adaptation with a twist, so toss
out all that you’ve thought of this story before. Think… think – .
Think electric. Think of your first love.” For Wren, this brought a
sting in his chest rather than a spreading warmth. He ignored this
and continued, only fumbling over a few words while trying to clear

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it from his mind. “Just be romantic. I want to see a passionate Eve
and an enchanted Adam. I want to see brave rebellion and blissful
ignorance,” he finally mumbled.

From stage left he could feel Cleo grinning at him. It made his
palms build beads of sweat. They’d been officially dating for three
weeks now and he still wasn’t sure why he’d said yes to bringing in
labels. He liked her, sure, but he couldn’t help wondering if how
he felt was how he was supposed to feel in a relationship. Like the
students’ poor portrayal, there wasn’t any passion between him and
Cleo unless they were under a mess of sheets. Though there seemed
to be plenty of blissful ignorance. At the end of the day it didn’t seem
to matter. A warm bed and shared glass of wine was better than a
cold, empty apartment alone, and the unusually bitter Texas winter
didn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon.

For lunch they met in the small café inside a wing of the food
court. Wren bit into a flaky croissant, leaving fragments of the
buttery treat in the thin mustache he’d recently decided to grow.
The fragrance of melted swiss cheese and fluffy eggs filled the space
around them, and Wren felt warm inside with the perfection of his
lunch. Cleo was in full conversation with someone, Iris, as Wren re-
called overhearing. Her smile was absolutely radiant, Wren thought.
She was lovely, but she wasn’t the type he could see himself buying
a house with and having a few kids. She was warmth, but so far that
seemed to be all.

The woman on the phone, Iris, would be a visiting professor for
the Summer and Cleo had been completely wrapped up in learning
everything about her before her arrival. She was from the Chicago
area, in her last year of a PhD, and just needed a bit more teaching
to finish. Lavender Hill had been her only option, or the only option
she wanted, Wren assumed. He’d listened in regularly, not being
able to help himself from being pulled in with the details of Iris. He
took on the challenge of molding the details of her he’d gathered
and created a vision before him.

Iris had eyes that were brown, but just light enough to cause
the desire for honey to hit your tongue and spread like wildfire. Her
hair was naturally curly, slightly unkept, slightly frizzy most days.

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Her hands would be soft like a satin down pillow, and their touch
would relax even the most uptight person in the room. She would
speak just as softly, and as you’d talk to her you’d wonder how on
earth someone as soft-spoken as her could get in front of a classroom
of students and be heard, be respected. But she could. Iris, could.
Wren imagined that there would be one thing about her, just one
thing that she’d never speak of. Something from her past that would
eat away at him with a consuming wonder. But he’d never be brave
enough to ask.

“Wren?” Cleo said. “You okay? You’ve tried to drink from that
empty cup at least three times now.”

“Fine,” Wren said, smiling. In that moment the tall glass wall
beside them that blocked the blistering breeze from hardening their
joints, filled with sun rays that stretched through the clouds. The sky
almost seemed warm and blue, but it also seemed farther away than
usual. “Let’s go to your apartment.”

Cleo didn’t oppose, and they began to gather their things and
slide on layers of wool and fleece. “Wait, what’s that?” Cleo’s leather
purse slid to the ground and her hand caught Wren’s. He winced in
anticipation of her thumb sliding weightily over the shadow on the
back of his hand. He’d almost forgotten the strange shadow, which
is what he’d come to refer to it as since it never seemed to grow more
or less tender, or cause any pain at all for that matter. It had never
expanded or shrunk by even a millimeter. He’d searched online for
any details that could identify what it was, but to no avail. “I have
no idea.”

“Well shouldn’t you get it checked out? How long have you
had it? Does it hurt?”

“No,” Wren said, pulling his hand from hers and leading the
way out of the café. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“How long has it been there?” Cleo persisted. She sure did like
to know all that she could about anything, Wren thought.

“Not long,” he lied. “It’s honestly fine. If it’s not gone in the
next few days, I’ll have it checked out.”

Cleo glared at him through the sides of her eyes, not com-
pletely trusting his words but knowing that there wouldn’t be much

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she could do about it. She took his bruised hand in hers gently,
rubbing her thumb tenderly across the back as if her touch was
magic. Wren’s other hand was in his coat pocket, stroking the pack
of cigarettes that now had a hole at the top. His fingers would smell
like tobacco.

Inside Cleo’s apartment they collapsed into the couch. The
morning had been stressful for them both. Wren wasn’t sure if the
play was ready to be performed, but there were only a few weeks until
they were set to present it. The show would go on either way. Aston-
ishingly, he let himself stress over the play’s likelihood of being great.
He found himself wanting to get invited back to this quant, cold town.

Wren surprised himself with the unexpected question that left
his mouth. “What’s Iris’s last name?”

“Why,” Cleo said, laughing.
“I think I may have met her before, when I was visiting Chi-
cago once. The name is just familiar.” He lied so easily to Cleo.
There wasn’t a tense muscle in his body, and he didn’t worry if she
believed him or not.
“Howard?”
Wren suppressed a sigh that felt like feathers caressing the in-
side of his chest and abdomen. Howard. “No, I guess it must have
been someone else.” He pushed further back into the cushions of
the turquoise velvet couch. It smelled of moth balls, or maybe years
in a storage unit. Wren’s eyes ached, and he rubbed them with the
rough tips of his fingers.
“What’s on your mind, darling.” Cleo’s smooth voice tickled
against Wren’s neck. Her ashy hair fell across her face like lace cur-
tains.
“Just stressed about the next few weeks. I’m tired, Cleo. That’s
the simplest way to put it I guess.”
“I know,” she said. Her hand reached to cradle the back of his
tension-filled neck, and gently tugged it toward her so she could
place light kisses down the side. “I think I know,” she whispered,
“what can take your mind off of everything. If only for a little while.”
She pulled back and gave him that smile that always filled Wren’s
chest with warmth. “Or maybe a long while.”

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Cleo’s kisses quickly turned into small bites that had Wren
pulling her to lay on top of him just as swiftly. His eyes fluttered
with every touch and tug at his skin. Threads of light flickered past
his eyelashes like sunshine through the thick leaves of a massive
oak tree. When the caps of his eyes finally stayed closed, his mind
traveled to a warm place that smelled of freshly mowed grass and
lavender bushes in full bloom. Light and overwhelming. Cleo’s fin-
gers pressed into the skin of his torso and trailed down to his waist.
Images were flashing through Wren’s mind. Honey and curly, dark
hair the color of black birds. Bruises and golden skin kissed with
heat. Thick eyelashes that framed perfect, almond-shaped eyes. A
breathtaking smile… Wren was lost in the warmth of it all, and it
was all over far too soon.
After he dressed, he kissed Cleo goodbye and promised to
make her breakfast to start the weekend tomorrow. When he arrived
in his apartment he walked straight into the bathroom and shut
the door. He hoisted the rickety wooden window with royal blue,
chipped paint as far as it would go. Before he could stop himself, he
was tearing through the clear wrap of the cigarette pack and pulling
out one, raising it to his lips and leaving it just far enough into his
mouth that it wouldn’t fall. His lips felt dry and wrinkled against the
white, rounded paper. He pulled in air through the unlit cigarette.
The taste of nicotine tainted his tongue and Wren wanted to gag, but
he didn’t. Instead, through the open window he hung his head over
the edge, barely holding on to the old cigarette, and he stayed there
until the pressure of blood pooling in his forehead was too much to
bear. Only then did the cigarette dropped from his lips, and it never
left his sight as it fell.



Wren stood outside of Cleo’s door. He could hear her on the phone,
her voice light with excitement. He could picture her walking bare-
foot across her thick rug. She would stop every now and then to
clench a tuft of material between her toes. It was to strengthen her
feet and prevent injury, she said. A good habit.

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She was talking to Iris, Wren knew it. His mood instantly
brightened at the thought of her. That night he had gone to his com-
puter to do some research. It began as simply looking up reasoning
for light bruising on appendages, but Wren’s thoughts easily drifted
to thoughts of Iris. Maybe it was her name – a title that radiated
royalty, conjured inspiration for Monet and van Gogh, reminded
Wren of elegance and life. He needed to meet her.
So as he was typing into his laptop late at night, health condi-
tion causes for hand bruising, he couldn’t help but hold the backspace
button and replace those words with, Iris Howard – Chicago. Her
LinkedIn profile appeared, along with her Facebook and Instagram
account. He clicked to her social media page and her face appeared
brightly on his screen. There she was, so close to what he’d imagined.
She was holding a coffee stained, white cup with Chicago skyscrapers
surrounding her like giant red oaks in a forest. Her smile was perfect
porcelain, easy on the eyes and quickening for the heart. Wren clicked
on the picture to enlarge it and left the tab open for most of the night.
A few minutes later he would close his screen, feeling slightly guilty,
but also slightly at-ease. He woke up three separate times that night –
once to use the restroom, and twice to see her face again.
Now Wren stood at Cleo’s door, his body and mind heavy.
He’d woken up feeling the complete opposite of how he had a few
hours ago. The last few weeks hadn’t felt serious at all, but he couldn’t
shake the feeling of shame. And to add to his worries, his hands had
begun to ache today. Both hands were now painted in light bruising
and Wren had scheduled a doctor’s appointment for the next week
despite his lack of insurance. The winter wind seemed like hands itself,
clutching tightly to the long bones of Wren’s hands, squeezing, al-
most crushing. His leather gloves were on even though he was inside.
He knocked, and Cleo answered a few moments later wearing
her usual smile. The curtains of her living room were open letting in
the January sun, but it wasn’t warm inside. Wren could nearly see
his breath before him.
Cleo ended her phone call. “Breakfast?”
“Actually…” Wren began, his voice coming out unstable like
a cart moving across gravel.

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Before he could continue Cleo grabbed his hands forcefully,
sliding off the gloves and causing him to wince in pain. “What’s
going on here?”
“I don’t know. It’s worse today. I scheduled an appointment.”
Cleo dropped his hands and walked into the kitchen to grab
an apple. She bit into the dark red skin before replying. “Good. I
was worried I’d have to do it for you. Just got off the phone with
Iris. She’ll be here for the Fall officially. I’m so excited to introduce
you to each other—”
“Who said I’ll be back for the Fall?”
“Oh, darling!” She walked peppily up to his face and grabbed
it with both hands, pressing in his cheeks until she could feel the
bones. “I got you another gig. You didn’t think you’d get away from
me that easily, did you?”
“Well I guess –”
“Of course not. The department has yet to find another di-
rector, so I suggested we keep you on until they find someone more
permanent. I’ve got some pull with them since I’ve been helping for
so long. I assured them you’d have no problem returning.”
Wren sat back onto the couch and Cleo joined him, placing
her hand on his knee and clutching it tightly. He stared at her face,
so bright and positive, so innocent. “Cleo, I don’t know about us.”
Wren blinked at her and her eyes seemed to lose their light with a
thin shadow, like slender clouds filtering the light from the sun.
She laughed and it came out unsteady. The walls of Wren’s throat
seemed to be caving in. “My mind has just been elsewhere. I’m –”
“You know…” Cleo’s voice was light again, and this made
Wren even more uncomfortable. Her hand was still clutching his
knee, but now it was like parchment, translucent. “I really went
out of my way to get you this job for the Fall. I assumed you’d be
grateful, that we’d celebrate. Was I wrong? Do you have a better
offer in New York?”
Wren starred at her hand on his knee. There was no more
warmth, and what he really wanted to do was tell her to get a life.
He would give credit where credit was due. He never asked for any
favors from her, and he’d be damned if he let her hold an employ-

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ment opportunity over his head. But before he could say anything,
he thought of Iris. She would be here in the Fall as well. Maybe
things could be different then. At the very least he wouldn’t be alone.

“You’re right,” Wren said, laughing. He grabbed a lighter that
was on the side table next to a candle and began to turn it over re-
petitively in his hands. “I’m just under a lot of stress with the show.
And this thing with my hands –” He was still laughing but it came
out intermittently and strained between his words. “Why not? See
where this goes. I need some air.”

Wren left Cleo sitting on her couch with a look of satisfaction,
but he didn’t care if she felt triumphant in that moment. Wren felt
dominant for the first time in a while. He was looking forward to
something, finally. Even if it was someone he had yet to meet. As he
pushed through the apartment building door and into the cold air
that instantly grasped the tip of his nose, he pulled the worn cigarette
pack from his pocket and retrieved one. He balanced it between his
lips like he had done the day before, but now he raised the lighter to
the end and watched the flame quickly turn the paper to ash.
Sydney Wright is a Creative Writing graduate student at the Uni-
versity of Memphis specializing in fiction and literature. She has
been a Creative Nonfiction editor for The Pinch Literary Journal for
two years, and has also read for their literary contest. Sydney was a
track and field athlete for the U of M, competing in multiple events
during her eligibility.

285



The Half Life of Shame

By Ross Goldstein

My father used to rhapsodize about a time, long before I was born,
before artificial intelligence replaced individual agency, before
people became nodes in a giant distributed network, a time, in
other words, when you could make decisions on your own, and
they mattered. Not in my thirty years. Maybe never; my father was
an unreliable and unrepentant ambassador for “how things used to
be,” which is probably why TheBureau extracted him. He rejected
the notion that expedience was the essential building block of social
engineering. He could be full of shit, the way he went on about
privacy and what he called “the primacy of the individual over the
collective,” but he was old school. He believed what he believed,
and he paid the price for it.

I’m reminded of him as I start my morning coffee ritual. He’d
talk about real coffee beans – organic, pungent, earthy. Not the
caffeine-injected Styrofoam pellets I pour into the grinder every
morning. I need the caffeine to bridge the gap between my limbic
brain and my frontal lobe. I swab a sample of my saliva on the health
scanner. It messages the nutri-dispenser, a gleaming, stainless-steel
compounder, that hums and spins, spitting a bouquet of colored
pebbles into my hand. Today’s nutrition–some glycogen, protein,
and enough carbohydrate extract to get me through til midday refu-
eling. Another saliva scan, just to make sure. Green light, good to go.
Can’t be late again. I work at the Cyberkinetic Intelligence Lab, jam-
ming code. People think artificial intelligence is self-sustaining, that

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code can write itself. Of course, it can, but bugs happen. Someone
needs to be there, to eliminate the bugs. I’m an exterminator.

On my way to the door, I eye the info-feed. News flits and
flows across the screen. Miami has disappeared under the Atlantic.
Conflict is raging in Michiana, the state created by the merging of
Michigan and Indiana. On a lighter note, Transgender Anonymous
has nominated Pat Conklin to run for Chief Overlord. Is Pat male
or female? Gender is so fluid these days you need a time stamp
to tell which iteration you’re looking at. Another benefit of DNA
modification kits, which, when they first were developed everyone
thought would be the end the world. Another skirmish in the battle
between technology and human resilience.

Suddenly, the screen flashes red. “Citizen 12999. Urgent no-
tice! Report to health clinic X105 at 11:30 AM.” It’s only been a
month since my last remote tele-physical. I feel a chill. I’m hoping it’s
a false positive. They do happen, albeit not with enough regularity to
provide real comfort. I lower my voice an octave to mask my anxiety.

“Clinic x105. Connection please.”
A woman’s holographic image materializes on the screen. She’s
kind of hot, in a robotic way. Real? If only. The graphic engineers
have come a long way with skin tone and texture, no more of the
plastic look that gave the lie to avatars. Her voice is slightly out of
sync with the image. I make a mental note to reboot my server.
“Hello citizen 12999. How may I direct your call?”
“Notice to report today. Information please.”
“I’m sorry. Access to your file has been denied,” she says with
saccharine sincerity. She doesn’t blink. Her lips move, but the rest
of her face is as motionless as a pond at sunset.
“Permission to know the purpose of the appointment.”
“Permission denied. 10:30 appointment confirmed.” The face
on the screen dissolves.
I log into central lock to inform my supervisor of my absence and
discover that core data sync has already clocked me out for the day.



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Tele-medicine has made face to face visits with a med tech redundant,
so I’m not sure what to expect. The clinic is housed in an office building
attached to a taller building, which I take to be a hospital, or a prison.
It’s hard to tell the difference. Illness isn’t officially a crime, but TheBu-
reau frowns on deviations from the norm. The clinic’s gray façade bears
the letters X105. Inside, I confirm my identity with a thumbprint and
take a seat in the waiting room. Bland electronic spa music drones in
the background. Nervous energy drives my drumming fingers. Finally, a
receptionist calls out my name. Eyes glued to the screen in front of her,
she presses a button, and a door slides open revealing an empty white
corridor. “Room 26,” she says. The overhead intercom barks, “12999
in transit to 26.” Overhead, fluorescent lights hum. An antiseptic smell
stings my nostrils. Room 26 is white, windowless, empty, save for a
solitary metal chair in the corner, a wall-mounted screen and a table
covered in crinkly paper. Chair or table? I choose the table and hop up,
like a kid on a swing. The paper wrinkles and sticks to my sweaty hands.
I wait, nervously swinging my legs against the edge of the table. Little
rivulets of sweat meander down from my armpits. After what seems like
hours, but is probably only minutes, I hear a voice outside the door.
Methodical, routine, fatigued. “Retrieve data profile for 12999.”

The med tech looks like the nerdiest geek in the high school
computer club. He’s tall, skinny, blue-eyed, with hair so blond and
skin so white, he seems almost translucent. He’s wearing a long,
starched, white coat. Above the left breast is a monogram. No name,
just his health service identification number, 1109. He squints at me
through thick black glasses. I put him somewhere in his late twenties,
maybe early thirties, although the lab coat and his rigid bearing make
a more accurate assessment impossible. In his hands, cradled like a
bible, rests a portable data screen. “Good afternoon, citizen12999.”

“Is this about that picture of the mole I e-mailed last month?”
I ask. “Because the algorithm analysis came back negative.”

“No. If that were positive, you would have been notified.
Nothing to worry about…in that department.”

“So, this is about…”
“It’s about the data analysis of your waste product. Unusual
readings from your toilet sensors.” He focuses on the screen in his

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hand, humming to himself, lost in some kind of a data-driven rev-
erie. Finally, he peers up at me, eyes barely rising above the tablet.

“Hmmm…we have markedly elevated levels of oxytocin in
your urine.”

We, I wonder when I became a we. He motions to the monitor
on the wall and clicks a remote. A hockey stick line stretches across
the screen. He points to the deflection point where the line shoots
northward. “Here. Starting about four months ago. Oxytocin bump,
two standard deviations above your norm, which was already un-
usually high. We’ve been monitoring for some time. That’s quite an
increase in both volume and velocity,” he says, arching his eyebrows.

He looks at me as if I should know something that I don’t. He
frowns, “You do know what causes an oxytocin bump like this, I
presume.” I shake my head.

“Orgasms. When you ejaculate, the brain responds with an
oxytocin squirt. From the hypothalamus. We call it the ‘cuddling
hormone.’ It has, or had, certain evolutionary benefits, before the
Department of Endocrine Homeostasis developed a bio-engineered
injectable synthetic. This is both interesting and unusual.”

“It is?”
“I’ll explain. Your data file indicates that you are not mar-
ried, which rules out frequent sexual activity, not that marriage is
a reliable indicator of orgasmic regularity. And, your CCTV feed
shows no signs of another person entering your apartment. So, the
only explanation is that you must be engaged in a great deal of,
um, self-pleasure. Masturbation. Jerking off. Chucking the custard.
Whichever term you prefer.”
I’m surprised by his use of the crude expressions, but he’s run-
ning the show, so I just hang my head and mumble, “I don’t know.”
But I do. We all do. These days, nothing goes unseen, unmea-
sured, uncounted. Numbers are fed into a distributed network of
mega computers, weaving the threads of our lives into a data tap-
estry, a virtual representation of our who we are – ones and zeros,
data nodes, analyzed, examined and scrutinized for deviations from
the norm. TheBureau has arranged it this way; our essence a math-
ematical manifestation of thousands of simultaneous, interlocked

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algorithms. For our own good, or so we are told. After all, the sys-
tem’s designed to optimize well-being. But, here and now, in the
presence of this awkward med tech, with his supercilious geekhood,
I don’t feel gratitude. I feel exposed. Resentful. Depressed. Fearful.
Context is everything.

I mumble “maybe the sensor in the toilet is malfunctioning,”
embarrassed at how lame I sound. He smirks.

“No. We’ve run a secondary confirmation on the sensors. Ev-
erything checks out. Did you really think we would go to the trouble
of having you come in for a false positive?”

I shrug.
“In some cases, elevated numbers like yours might indicate an
endocrine malfunction or a tumor of some sort.” The word ‘tumor’
triggers the starter button on my heart. “But the readings from your
body scan analysis are normal. No, 12999, it’s quite clear that you
are masturbating more, way more, than normal.” He raises his fingers
in an air quote around the word normal. The air quotes are a sham,
a trick to get me to spill the beans. It would be so easy to confess.
Admit to nothing, my father used to say.
I do like to masturbate, maybe too much, whatever that might
be. I call it a “brain bath.’ A stress release. It’s also, one of the few ac-
tivities that I can own, an expression of something inherently mine,
a private rebellion, I suppose, although ascribing a political purpose
to something so personal seems a little suspicious, even to me.
“Is this a problem?” I ask, swapping naiveté for confession. The
med tech sighs. He clicks the remote. A bar graph hits the screen. It
looks like the skyline of a major city.
“Data doesn’t lie. The feed from your ISP shows you’ve been
spending an extraordinary amount of time on porn feeds. Let’s see,
eleven hours on Pornutopia. Twelve on WatchMeWatchYou. So
many others. You’ve been very, very busy. Two point seven devi-
ations above the norm. If you want, we can review some of your
search terms. Like, here, on Pornutopia you seem to like ‘big natural
tits.’ Well, who doesn’t?” He chuckles, and I dislike him more.
“It’s just that–” My mind is spinning, searching for a plau-
sible excuse, but he cuts me off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

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“Citizen, the Committee on Health Optimization has no position
regarding masturbation as a moral issue. What concerns us is all that
oxytocin and the risk of non-compliance. That’s the thing. Self-plea-
sure takes you out of bounds, if you know what I mean.”

I do, and I’m afraid of the consequences.
“Let me be clear. When you generate pleasure outside TheBu-
reau’s systematic reward protocol you are taking things into your
own hands. Rogue reinforcement threatens all the parameters for
reward. It’s a risk to the order of things. It might seem like a small
transgression, an artifact of subjective expression, but what if ev-
eryone allowed themselves similar deviations? We can’t have that,
can we?”
There it is, the gratuitous use of “we,” adding insult to injury.
A patronizing chuckle, he’s rolling now, and I’m sinking fast.
I get a spontaneous memory flash, a long-buried recollection
– my mother banging on the bathroom door when I was a teen.
I’m inside, mid-stroke, masturbating. Her fists rattling the door.
“Enough is enough,” she bellows with a voice that could strip the
bark off a tree.
“Just a minute, Mom,” I mumble. Finishing is out of the
question. I yank up my pants to hide my erection and slink out
the door. She stands outside the door, a sentinel, arms crossed,
wagging her head like a metronome, disgust dripping from her
scowl. It’s been years, but her disapproval has staying power only
shame can possess.
The med tech breaks my reverie. “We have two options. Both
quite effective. Your choice.”
“I can make a choice?”
“Of course, within the boundaries of efficacy, that is. It’s all
about control. Do you want to be in charge, or would you like a little
nudge, a little help, so to speak?”
Control? A little ironic, no? Considering the circumstances?
“So, choice number one, a rehab program we call ARP, the
Anhedonia Reprogramming Protocol.”
I’ve heard of this, but not for a problem with masturbation.
Usually it’s substance abuse or some kind of addiction. Am I ad-

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dicted to masturbating? I admit to being a compulsive masturbator,
but addicted? Sounds so harsh. He did say the data never lies.

“What does this ARP involve?
“Four weeks, in-patient at a facility specializing in impulse con-
trol. All kinds of behavior problems, gambling, drug abuse, self-de-
structive conduct, impulse control. Ninety-five percent success rate.
You’d be surprised what a little reprogramming can accomplish. It
combines neural reprogramming, medication and cognitive-behav-
ioral therapy, with a support system, of course. You’ll be with others
just like you. You’ll come out a new man. In so many ways.”
“Or?”
“Or chemical intervention.” He reaches into the pocket of his
lab coat and pulls out a vial containing a translucent, milky fluid.
He holds it to the light, admiring it as if it were a gem. “This little
bottle holds an alternative modality. It’s something the bio-tech-
nicians have developed precisely for your type of situation. DLM,
Diminished Libido Metabolite. The libido crusher, we sometimes
call it. One shot every six months and you’re no longer at the
mercy of your sex drive. The urge to masturbate will be a faint
memory.”
The whole dilemma seems more than a little surreal, made even
more so by the sanguine attitude of the med tech.
“Well, citizen, the choice is yours. So, what’s it going to be?”
“Are there side effects?”
“Well, with anhedonia reprogramming, there is a little flat-
tening of affect, and, truth be told, some patients have found that it
isn’t just pleasure in one area, like sex, or gambling, that diminishes.
Some report that they lose their interest in food, movies, exercise.
In extreme cases we have seen a tendency toward depression, even
suicide. But rare, extremely rare.”
“And the ‘libido crusher?”
“More targeted to the sex drive. You simply won’t want to en-
gage in any sexual activity…pornography, intercourse, masturbation.
The urge will feel as alien as a foreign language you’ve never studied.”
“That seems a little extreme. I mean, what if I just control
my masturbation, cut down, on my own? Can I try that? Keep

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it to once a week, or once a…whatever you decide is ‘within the
limits’?”

The med tech smiles. “If that were plausible, we wouldn’t be
here talking now. No, citizen, your data profile is a clear predictor
of your future. We know you better than you know yourself. Trust
me, you’d be back here in a few months. And when we call you back,
the choices would be harsher.”



Four weeks with a genetic circus of addicts wasn’t really appealing,
so I accepted the injection. It’s been six months now. I’ll be getting
another shot in a week. There are times I question whether I need
another, but probably I’m just deluding myself. I’ve had no sex drive
for so long, it’s hard to remember what it felt like. Can you miss
something if your desire for it has vanished?

Without my sex drive persistently ringing the doorbell of my
consciousness, I’m much clearer, a better person, a better citizen.
I see it now. Sex, masturbation, pornography – these weren’t just
things that made me feel good. They were existential acts, sneaky
ways to grab a little contraband satisfaction. They were petty, selfish,
irresponsible hacks. Short-sighted, and ultimately destructive, to the
system, and to me.

I was unrepentant, rebellious, at first. I didn’t want it to work.
I tried to masturbate, to test the cure. Pulled up some of my favorite
porn sites. Know what happened? Nothing. That’s what happened.
The images on the screen created no more arousal than a still life
painting.

Still life. Come to think of it, that’s how I feel about my life
these days, and it’s truly a comfort. The system has helped me to
help myself. I’m much calmer. More productive at work. No more
late nights, eyes glazed, clicking through the panoply of sex offerings.
I’m in bed early. On time to work. Last week I received a certificate
acknowledging my productivity at work. Rewrote ten million lines of
code in a week. Made me proud. There’s that, and that’s not nothing.

If you can’t beat them, join them. I’ve become a model citizen.

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Ross Goldstein is a San Francisco Bay Area writer. His work has ap-
peared in a wide variety of journals, including Adelaide, Dime Show
Review and Near to the Knuckle. When not reading or writing, he
can usually be found cycling or at a local coffee shop, eavesdropping
on conversations in search of his next short story.

295



A Writer’s World

By Zia Marshall

Varsha was struggling with a poignant mother-daughter scene
when Varun told her he was leaving. She rose to give him a hug.
Then she returned to her work, while Varun left their tiny Mumbai
flat. He would be gone for two months this time. It was a short
rotation compared to the six-month stints he usually did aboard
the ship.

In the initial days after their marriage, he had suggested that
she join him when he went sailing. After all, she could write any-
where, he had reasoned. They had an awful row that day – the worst
since they had been married.

“How can you assume that I can write from anywhere?” Varsha
had cried indignantly. “Clearly, you don’t understand the first thing
about my writing. Writing is an art, Varun, and I need my own
space while writing. My ideas would never flow if I were cooped up
on a ship for months together. I wouldn’t be able to write a thing.”

Varun had never again asked her to join him aboard the ship.
Just as Varsha could never ask him to leave the Merchant Navy and
take a regular job. She knew that the sea was in his blood just as
writing was in hers.

So for many months in the year, Varun and Varsha inhabited
two different worlds. He lived in his world of the vast, undulating
sea and she occupied her world of beautiful, eloquent words. But
they missed each other terribly in the months that they were apart. “I
suppose you’ll eventually get used to my absence,” Varun had said,

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to which Varsha had replied, “No, I’ll never get used to it. But I’ll
learn to accept it and live with it.”

Even now, three years into their marriage, Varsha could not
bear to go to the dockyard to see Varun off. She had done it the
first time he had gone away. She had stood with all the other shippie
wives waving as the large ship pulled out of the harbour in a mass of
frothy white waves that cut a wide swathe across the brilliant blue
sea. The sight of the ship sailing away had brought home to her the
finality of his departure for the next few months. His absence echoed
through the empty walls of their flat and settled over her like a living
thing. She had had spent the next three days in a haze of grief and
self-indulgent tears. Finally her mother, worried by the fact that
Varsha wasn’t returning any of her phone calls, had arrived. She had
doled out strong black coffee and practical advice in equal measure.

“You have chosen to marry a shippie. Now you must learn to
deal with his habitual absence from your life,” Varsha’s mother had
said in a matter-of-fact tone.

It was sound advice and Varsha had taken it to heart. She had
pulled herself together and got on with it. Her writing occupied a
large part of her day, the months flew by, and before she knew it
Varun had returned.

But Varsha had never again made the mistake of going to the
dockyard to see Varun off. Instead she preferred it this way, as it had
been this morning. A brief hug and he was gone, while she remained
immersed in her work.

When Varsha eventually rose from her desk and made her way
to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of coffee, she hardly noticed Var-
un’s absence, so absorbed was she in her novel. The words with their
tiny black letters danced around in her mind and tumbled out filling
the blank pages of the Word document, as she tapped away at the
keyboard in a writer’s mesmerized trance.

The hours flew by. When Varsha glanced out of the window
facing her desk, the sky was enveloped in the purple shades of twi-
light. Where had the time gone, she wondered, as she rose and
stretched. Her stomach rumbled in protest. She realized she hadn’t
eaten all day. She went to the kitchen and looked at the dishes on

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