A few flash fictions

         

         

"Saving face"

         Jamie set the lipstick back on Mom's dresser. The shade was Harlot. A deep red that ran like blood at the corner of his mouth where his hand slipped. No real blood on his lip this week--just his eye, still shiny and blue under too pale foundation. Frustrated red rivulets ran down his mother's sink. He toweled his face off and stuffed the washcloth with its red letter lipstick mark into the bottom of his Mom's hamper.
         Sam came over later with her buff ivory and sat quietly on Jamie's bed while he touched up his lie. She told him the only thing clumsy about him was how he held an applicator sponge. He flinched when she brought the sponge to his eye, telling him taking up baseball did make a better story than the tired "fell down the stairs--again." That stung more than his eye. Eyes heal themselves.
         At sign-ups last week, the knifepoint of his father's words held Jamie in the baseball line. Still a pansy's sport, but a man had to know when to compromise. Something had to teach that boy some coordination. Can't even handle stairs, let alone something like football. Better a fag's sport than nothing. The school's star pitcher hit on him once, in the dark, steamy dank of the locker room. Shouldn't have dodged that offer--hitting was the only "Slugger" was any good at. Didn't matter to him how his little bitch took it. Daily came the unspoken threat buried in physical ones. Say one word faerie, say one word. They both knew what it meant, both made sure no one else did. It was easy enough. Once a faerie... He never should have tried out for Midsummer Night's Dream. Indecent parade of faggotry, that was. Disgusting.
         His father's words were inescapable. The whole block knew the man would hear nothing of it. No one could hear anything about anything once his words started to fly. They drown out his mother's words before they could flee up the stairs where Jamie could hear them. Yelling and drowning we his answer to everything. He wouldn't be home til well after midnight, well after the bars closed, if all went well.
But Jamie's mother would be home at six. She would (hopefully) be the one to hear his principal's message about "Jamie's early dismissal today" on the answering machine. She wouldn't say a word when Sam passed her in the hall. They would both return silently back to their respective places. No one would be caught out of place tonight. Not a thing out of order, except the single envelope from Julliard his mother would slip under the door while he lay facing the wall pretending to sleep. Even the Harlot, flashing in the gleam of his headlights through the window, would be swept in the drawer before she turned to face her own wall.

"Easier done than said"

         You're a big girl now. Eighteen in a week. Good a time as any. Your own job, your own place. Mom's half a country away...
         No big deal. You aren't even dating her anymore. Just throw out the engagement bone early, slip the rest in easy. No white wedding, so what? Mom never liked your first boyfriend anyway. Let him take the fall. Play up the new man, and the ring. ...she probably won't even acknowledge the lesbian part, knowing her. Just focus on the marriage, focus on the look, he's Jewish, too!
         Of course, Mom can always not be home. No, don't wait til after class, you know she has her cell on her. It won't be any easier later-- at least now you can use class as an excuse...
         ...what kind of life could you have really given her anyway? Not in this lifetime. The best friend/roommate excuse can't hold up after school... You did right, end it sooner than later. Hurts less now, really. It will, just settle down, have a kid--have ten, they're distracting. Move on.


         "Mom, I'm sorry. There's no easy way to say this..."
         "It's ok, honey, you can tell me anything."

"The Limit"

         Drip, cloud, clear. Drip, cloud, clear. Drip, cloud... She set the pipette down and brought the beaker up to her face. She couldn't tell if the liquid was still cloudy, or if the glass was just smudged. No, not the glass... not the liquid... She looked through the glass, finally seeing him. His cufflinks chinked as he set his hand on the beaker, pushing it down from her face. She blinked at him, eyes slow to focus. So was her brain. It took her a moment to register his we're late, coupled with an exasperated look, as something that required an answer.
         "Go on without me, Joseph. I'm in the middle of something."
         "The dinner is in your honor, Marie"
         "Our honor. Our project, remember?" She set the beaker down, lowering her gaze with it. "I know this is the first time you've been in the lab in months, but it is ours."
         He didn't answer, so she picked up the beaker and pipette. She ignored his tie straightening, hair smoothing, fidgeting. He'd defend himself, excuse himself, chide her--whatever word mincing suited him at the moment. Words were his strongpoint. The lab was hers. He wasn't a scientist anymore than she was a diplomat, but she was practical, and this needed to be done.
         "Go to the party, Joseph. Now. You don't want to be here, and I don't want you here. Go lap up the praise I don't want and you seem to need so desperately."
         She kept her eyes locked on the beaker as he walked away, vanishing behind clouds that wouldn't settle.
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