Two Sketches

[andrewbrink.livejournal.com]

My first post.

My fiction is about love, loss and relationships, with a dash of whimsy. I would say the following is rated G, except if a child happens to pass by here don't bother, you'll be bored out of your freakin mind.


 

"Search Your Heart"

Tom was emerging from a fallow period. Months had droned into years as the summer's cicadas sang his soul to sleep like the songs of sirens. Every day he took his lunch break on the same bench and every day for five years he asked himself the same question: how can I escape my habits of thought? He tried to answer the question rationally with philosophy and artistically with poetry. But nothing changed. The torpor that had him bound in wool would not lift. Not until the intrusion of The Other in the form of a girl. Now he was emerging into morning again. He would shed his former life like a worn out suit of clothes. This was new life.

At least that is what he thought. Maybe some part of him remained in hibernation. Or maybe. Maybe it had rotted inside its cocoon of wool, never to be born. There was no way he could know, apart from a vague sense of something slipping away. He had been mistaken about himself before. And now he felt as uncertain in his new life as a baby taking its first steps. He was not prepared for this. He had always thought that increased age would bring experience, knowledge, maybe even wisdom. It never occurred to him that this was what he had asked for for five years. All he could think was, if I am no good for myself how can I be any good for her? On the verge of crisis he sought the council of an older friend, who offered a platitude: "search your heart." That is what Tom did. He found there was no bottom. His heart was a wild, pathless place where he wandered now, lost.


"Third Man on the Line"

Third man on the line, it was up to Brad to make the final presentations, to trim and garnish each plate. If necessary he would call whichever girl's name appeared on the ticket. They flew in and out of the kitchen like birds, well aware that Brad's green eyes were the first and last to witness their comings and goings. He longed for the eye contact, the moments when it lingered longer than necessary, the great brown irises through mascaraed lashes, the sudden unsolicited smiles. With his crow black hair and slight but tight frame he appealed to the young ladies. They found him "poetic" or "cute".

He was not always clear on signals being exchanged. The first time he saw Claire, for example, marked an awkward occasion, never to be smoothed over in subsequent meetings nor in memory. Intent on a piece of sole he was filleting for the chef, he glanced up at the figure which had appeared to request a salad--but what a figure! Trying not to audibly or visibly gulp, his gaze moved up the queenly form, caught a glimpse of arcing braid, and landed square on a nose of ungainly proportion. A truly beak-like protrusion. He jerked his eyes to hers, but not fast enough. She blushed deeply. For poor Claire there was no way to hide the terrible schism of that jagged glance, first so warm, then as if bitten. Subsequently, no matter how adamantly Brad refused to look at Claire's nose, it was impossible to forget that he had done so once, and that that fateful glance would define their relations forever. The second time she was diffident and after that, coldly indifferent.


(I welcome constructive comments and love literary conversations.)