Constrained Fictions #3
Once again, I thought I’d constrain myself by randomly picking a noun, an adjective and a verb (I won’t tell you which ones because that would spoil the fun) and also by forcing myself to use exactly 400 words (roughly one printed page) in a little rapid-fire fiction. If I can make a story out of it, all the better, but if it just ends up being a scene… Well, that’s fine too. Here’s we go!
Valentine Advice
by El Jardinero Zurdo, February 15, 2006
“What’s cooking, handsome?” said Louiqa from the hallway. Syd grunted. Intrusions are persistent, he thought. He was chopping celery — the heavy steel cleaver metered out a satisfying tap-tap-tap. There were six bowls on the counter, arranged in a row and filled with evenly sliced vegetables. Objects are organized spatially.
“Look at me!” said Louiqa. She stomped her bare foot on the threshold between the warm hardwood hall and the cold ceramic kitchen. The loose panel made a sharp clack and Syd started.
He slammed down the cleaver. “Do you actually want me to cut myself? Do you…” He looked up. “Oh.” She was in a red negligee with stockings and a garter. Skin is naked, he thought, females have milk glands. “Oh…”
“Forget it.” She flicked her fingernails — freshly painted fire truck red — against the fridge. “Too late.” Then she turned and left, giving Syd a fleeting look at her g-string. Play involves rules. Her footsteps creaked down the hall. “You need to fix that floorboard,” she called back, “I coulda cut my foot.”
“Lou, I…” Syd considered abandoning his celery and going after her, but when he heard the bedroom door slam he decided to let her cool off. Consider whether it can be measured quantitatively. He opened the cupboard and lifted down a bowl. He placed it on the scale and when the red numbers stabilized, he pressed Zero. Satisfied with 000g, he scooped green crescents from the cutting board and dumped them in the bowl. 187g. He cut more slices, adding one at a time until he had precisely 200g. Now he could start cooking.
When he reached for the wok, he heard sobbing. He held his breath but the sobbing continued. He knew he had to act. This — the unpredictability, the lack of rules — was the worst part of living together. If a positive decision cannot be made quickly, rules are not obviously being followed. Obviously not. Syd placed the wok on the unlit stove. He was trying to think what that article had said. He should go and read it now, refresh his memory. Couldn’t, it was in the bedroom. With Louiqa.
Syd sighed, untied his apron and hung it on its hook. He plodded down the hall toward the bedroom, silently mouthing: Is attention directed to the play partner? Attention includes watching, listening, touching and so on. Good advice.