Given my last two stories, and the stories I had been working on before this, Medha really challenged me here by asking for a "relatively normal story". Her exact words were, "normal, but still interesting. Eccentric." This is the part of the request I may have completely failed to accomplish. The other request, and by far the most important part, was that the story star a strong, independent woman who "don't need no man!" This last part was very Medha - who is, indeed, a strong, independent woman who certainly doesn't need no man. I wrote this story today - literally in about four hours - while listening to David Bowie. I wanted to go to a coffee shop, but since all my money had been stolen, and I wasn't really feeling well, I ended up with this instead. Here is my attempt at eccentric normality.
This opening line is based on something someone said to a completely different friend of mine from New York. Well, actually, New Jersey, but I knew her in New York - the fabulous Ashley Keane.
*
Strong Independent Oddity
“I can see you put a lot of emphasis on your hair.”
Gemma Ascari put down her copy of Feminist Magic and glared at the man who had unceremoniously sat himself down across from her. He was thin, with dark, slightly unkept hair and green eyes with a few flecks of gold in them. He was well dressed and decently attractive, but nothing particularly impressive. If she was in the market for a person of the male persuasion at the moment, she may have engaged in a passionate, one night fling with him and called it a night. At the moment, however, she couldn’t really be bothered.
“I don’t, actually,” she said, picking up her magazine and attempting to find her place. She was hoping he’d be a relatively intelligent man and she wouldn’t have to do anything rash. Apparently he was not.
“That’s surprising,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket, “it’s really quite beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she replied, as uninterested as possible. She reached down to grasp the handle of her coffee mug, but was thwarted when the man got there first. His hand held a card.
“Christopher Woolsely,” he said, as if she couldn’t read the business card he had just thrust into her hand, “Audio/Visual Media. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Gemma pulled her hand away and dropped the card on the table. To say she was unamused was somewhat of an understatement.
“I don’t appreciate people grabbing my hands without permission,” she said, “Particularly men. What right did you think you had to do that?”
“The right of a man in love.” he said, smiling the same intolerably smug smile she had seen on so many men in this position. Generally by this point they were telling her she looked great standing up, but would better on her back. They rarely jumped straight to love.
This was going to take longer than she thought. She put her magazine down.
“You love me?” she asked, amused.
“You could call it that,” he answered, predictably, “I see you here a lot. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but you always seem to vanish before I can.”
“I have a habit of doing that.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“You’re a woman of mystery.”
She smiled.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
The man leaned back in his chair, his expression clearly intrigued. The easy part was over, now came the more troublesome steps. She would need some more coffee.
“Have you seen the waiter?” she asked.
“I haven’t,” he answered, not bothering to look. “Are you single?”
“That’s quick.”
“I waste no time.”
“I can see that.”
She glanced around, the waiter was frustratingly absent. She sighed.
“I’m single.”
“Yes!” said Christopher, clasping his hands in a celebratory gesture, “That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.”
“Was it?”
“Indeed,” he raised his eyebrows in a way she assumed was an attempt to be flirtatious, “I was beginning to think you weren’t into me.”
“Who says that I am?”
“You do.”
She rolled her eyes. This was becoming more frustrating than entertaining. The situation was becoming tiresome, and the waiter had still yet to arrive with more coffee. She wondered what she had done to deserve this.
“When did I say that?” she asked.
“When you told me you were single,” he replied, his grin practically oozing smug egotism, “Most girls, when they’re not interested, just lie and say they have a boyfriend to get the guy to leave. You didn’t do that. You wanted me to know you were single.”
“Maybe I’m just honest.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” he continued, “Women rarely are. You only give us the truth when you really, really want us to know something. And sometimes not even then.”
Gemma frowned. There were so many things she wanted to do to this man, and none of them were things she imagined he would be particularly fond of. She restrained herself as she caught sight of the waiter at the other end of cafe. He was busy, but at least he was present.
“I can’t speak for the whole of womenkind,” she said, “But you’re probably right when it comes to me. It’s one of the many reasons that, despite your apparently true love for me, you probably wouldn’t ever want to actually date me.”
“I can’t imagine any reasons why I wouldn’t want to date you.”
“Oh, I can.” she said, standing up slightly. She leaned slowly towards him, pausing only when she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She hovered there for a moment, breathing into his ear, letting him want.
“So mysterious.” he whispered.
“I’m not human.” she replied, and snapped her fingers.
Sudden heat forced Christopher back. Gemma’s bare hand was suddenly, quite literally, on fire. Blue fire, to be exact. The very same variety of fire one would expect to see in a cartoon or a comic book, not licking the fingers of a woman in a cafe.
“What the fuck?” Christopher exclaimed, eloquently. Gemma just smiled, and leaned back in her chair - twiddling her flaming fingers as if nothing particular was amiss.
“As I stated earlier,” she said, relishing the opportunity to finally be the smug one, “I am not human. I am not from this city, this state, this country, or even this planet. I’m from another world, far away from anything you’ve ever known or ever will know.”
She snapped her fingers again. The flames vanished.
“So you see,” she finished, “There would be a few problems were we to enter into a romantic relationship.”
Christopher stared at her - eyes wide, mouth agape, apparently at a merciful loss for words. Gemma picked up her magazine, and returned to scouring the page for her place, ignoring him.
“That -” Christopher sputtered, “that...that was a trick, right? You’re fucking with me, right?”
“I don’t know,” said Gemma, now slowly lowering the magazine with a tad more suspense than was probably necessary, “You decide.”
And as soon as her face was fully visible across the table, Christopher screamed. It began with a gasp - a sudden inability to comprehend what he was seeing, before gradually building up to a blind, uncontrolled horror. He leapt out of his seat - any grace or class he may have been attempting to emulate entirely gone - and rushed furiously for the door, leaving nothing but a rather stunned waiter in his wake.
Gemma smiled, satisfied. That had certainly done the trick.
As she returned once again to her magazine, the waiter finally made his way over to her table, and without speaking, simply stared at her. She wasn’t terribly bothered, at least he wasn’t talking, but after a few moments she began to get frustrated, and once again put the magazine down.
“Can I help you?” she asked him.
“You’re normal again.” he noted, stuttering a bit.
“Indeed I am,” she agreed, “Could you, by any chance, get me another coffee?”
“Was that all really true?” he asked, completely ignoring the request, “Are you really a...er, being from another world?”
“The world of theater, perhaps,” she said, smirking a bit, “I’m a stage magician.”
“A magician?”
She nodded and held up Feminist Magic to reveal a particularly flattering picture of herself on the cover. Just as it had been a moment ago, her hand was alight with blue flame, the headline next to her reading; “ILLUSIONIST GEMMA ASCARI REVEALS EVERYTHING AND NOTHING - HER EXTRAORDINARY NEW SHOW.”
“I was trying to make sure there were no factual errors,” she said, “until I was somewhat rudely interrupted. I apologize if I startled any of your other customers.”
“Oh, uh, no...” he stumbled, “it just, it was very startling, and...um, realistic.”
“Thank you,” said Gemma, “that’s always the goal.”
The waiter nodded and shifted a bit from foot to foot. Something was still unsettling him.
“That trick you did at the end,” he began, “with the magazine and your...um, face. The fire, I can understand, I think, but that...what was that? It was a trick, right? Was it a mask?”
Gemma gave the man an unsettlingly enigmatic smile.
“When it comes to magic,” she said, “there are some questions you really shouldn’t ask, and equally as many that you shouldn’t really answer. The question of my origins, whether they are terrestrial or otherwise, you’ll notice I didn’t answer. There is a reason for this. After what you’ve seen today, I don’t think I need to.”
She turned away, and flipped back through Feminist Magic, her focus shifting back, once again, to the factual accuracy of her article.
“Now,” she said, not looking up, “Please, another coffee. This article is long, and I’ve lost a lot of valuable time. Two sugars. Soy milk. And a cinnamon roll.”
The waiter, shaking and slightly pale, nodded immediately and scurried away to the kitchen.
LOVED it!
ReplyDeleteAwesome! :)
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