Apr. 3, 2012
A story in less than 700 words.
“The best part about you – or the most beautiful part – is your name.”
“Well that’s a pretty weird thing to say,” she laughs from across the table.
“No I’m serious, your name is the most alluring part about you.”
“How is that—”
“It reminds me of names you hear on television shows about the fifties, you know? It’s everything that wearing a bow in your hair is, high-school sweethearts, ice cream sodas, things like ‘I’ve got one more night before I leave for technical college and I want to spend it with you up at—”
“It’s just my name. And I still find this—”
“—Inspiration Point!” he yells with comical triumph. Silverware clatters.
“—vaguely insulting.”
“You mean to tell me you’ve never thought about it that way?”
“What way?”
“Your name. It’s clean-cut. All-American. That way.”
“You mean ‘remember when we were all white and lived in the suburbs?’ That kind of thing?” She says that last part with eyes sparkling.
“Yeah, I suppose. Just because it’s a fantasy doesn’t mean it doesn’t retain—”
“—I’m not white and I don’t live in the suburbs.”
“—it doesn’t retain some kind of cache, or something. It’s not the whole reason for anything. It just makes you more…” As he thinks she fits in one full stir of her coffee in the thick porcelain mug that is Soviet-standard issue to breakfast places all across this country.
“—more…?”
“… potent. Intoxicating.” He tries to make the words playful, teasing, because they are so absolutely true.
Eggs over easy. Hash browns. An English muffin. The other plate doesn’t come.
“I still think this is entirely bizarre,” she says, spooning runny egg yoke onto some English muffin. “I’ve never thought of myself—”
“And you’re not!” he assures her, learning over his elbows on the table. He wasn’t exactly sure what she was about to say. He must seem awfully excited. He leans back. “You have a cute name…is all.”
“I’ve never thought about names as being cute or sexy,” she says, mirroring his posture and smiling. “I think it would be too appealing, you know? I think I would get too into the fantasy.”
“Yes, the all-American – Springsteen – gotta get out of this one-horse town – sort of—”
“Or something,” she finishes. Scrambled eggs come. Green salsa. Chorizo. Tortillas. More coffee? Yes please. “I’d probably follow a boy around like mad…if I got into that kind of thing,” she says and her eyes get sad between blinking. “So I think I understand,” she says. She smiles and exhales with the coffee in both hands, then moves strands of dark hair out of her face. “As long as that’s not the only thing about me you like.”
“No no, of course not!” They laugh, and he begins to construct his breakfast over the first of the tortillas. He takes a small bite because his heart is pounding. He would gladly relinquish his own liberty at this moment. Handcuff me and take me to your love dungeon, he thinks.
“I couldn’t have a fantasy about your name. It’s too German.”
“Ah, such is the fate of my people,” he says, leaning in with eyes bright and searching.
“This is a nice place,” she says resolutely. She resists the normal cadence of small talk. He looks outside at the car. They had a spot right outside the restaurant. He had remembered to put more money in the meter after they had ordered. The restaurant was a five-minute drive from where they had spent the night.
“Yeah, and it was so close too,” he says absently, and his thoughts plunge into the erotic and the sublime. She thinks about last night and yesterday afternoon and later today, and for a moment she squints uncomfortably. She still feels the soft fingers of someone else gripping her heart like a baseball, still feels a sinking feeling as she watches his hands drift around the table.
I don’t know what this is, she thinks. I’m not sure what to want.
