Flash Fiction Project
The announcer says the train’s late. Figures. I knew we shouldn’t have come early. Now we’re here for... what? another hour? maybe two?
Becka says, “I’m getting some more smokes, you want?”
“I haven’t smoked in three years,” I say.
“Well,” she huffs, “I was just asking. Given the circumstances and all.”
I wave her off. I want the cigarette, but the craving will pass.
I shift my position on the bench, sink lower until my back hurts, watch the German couple respond to the announcement. I hate them on sight. She sits on her luggage, her long limbs stretched out, head resting on her hands. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, stares out with his chiseled jaw. They look so healthy, blonde, and young.
Becka comes back, a lit cigarette between her fingers.
“This sucks,” she says.
“You got that right,” I say.
We look down the track, as if staring will make the train come faster. Then, as if tied together, we both turn to the German couple.
“I hate them,” she says. “Fucking cute couple.”
I smile at this. We are in solidarity, she and I.
“Do you think mom would have come?” she asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I think mom would have come,” she says, more certain.
“I don’t know,” I say again.
She takes a drag on the cigarette, blows the smoke out in the direction of the German couple.
“I mean, mom made him whatever he wanted for dinner. He’d say, ‘I want a BLT,’ and she’d just make it like that. Frying bacon and everything. And a beer. She’d get him a beer.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know. You don’t know,” Becca repeats. “What the hell do you know?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I say. “I don’t know. That’s it.”
“I’m freaking out,” she says, “Aren’t you freaking out?”
I shrug. I am still thinking about that cigarette. I haven’t had a cigarette in 3 years, 5 months, and 4 days. I could count the hours. I wonder what he’ll look like when he comes.
“You got that hotel for him,” she asks me, “You booked it right?”
“I booked it,” I say.
“I don’t want him staying with me,” she says, “I’m not ready.”
“I double checked the reservation,” I say, “He’s in the Howard Johnsons.”
“I’m not ready for him to stay with me,” she says again.
“Mom would be here,” I say.
“I think so,” she says. “Mom would take him to the hotel.”
She drags on the cigarette again.
“I don’t mind you staying with me,” she says, “I’m glad you’re here. I want you staying with me.”
“That fucking couple makes me nauseous,” I say. The man is ruffling the girl’s hair as she leafs through a Lonely Planet. She looks up at him and he looks down at her. It churns my stomach.
“I don’t know why they’re here. You’d think they’d be in the city or something,” she says. “Or why aren’t they making little Aryan babies?”
I fake a German accent, “Your cockenspiel it is so big. Fuck me like Arnie.”
Becka starts to laugh. She throws the remains of her cigarette down on the ground and grinds it with the toe of her shoe. I scream, “Noooooooooooo,” in my head, but maybe now the craving will go away.
“At least you came,” Becka says. “I couldn’t do this otherwise. At least you’re here.”
“I think you’d be okay without me,” I say, but I’m not certain.
The couple looks at us. Then the German man walks in our direction. Becka and I look at each other. What is he doing?
“Excuse me,” he says, accent Aryan. “I am sorry to interrupt. I have a question.”
Guidebook English.
“Yeah?” Becka says.
“We look for the a restaurant. Do you have familiarity with the a restaurant?”
Becka looks at me. I haven’t lived in this town for ten years.
“The diner,” I say, “You can try the diner in town. They make good all-day breakfast. You know, eggs and bacon.”
“Thank you,” he says, “Where is the a restaurant?”
“It’s the restaurant, not the a restaurant,” Becka says.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “My English is not very good.”
“You got that right,” Becka says, lighting another cigarette. He doesn’t understand her anyway.
“Where are you from?” he asks Becka.
“Here,” she says, “This shit hole.”
He laughs at the word “shit hole.” Apparently, a word he knows.
“Thank you,” he says, “We are from the Hague. Do you know the Hague?”
We don’t. We say nothing.
“It is in the Netherlands. The Hague is beautiful city.”
Becka nods. I look away.
“Thank you. We go to the restaurant now.”
He leaves. The girl gets up from the luggage and the two of them leave the platform, the luggage trailing behind them like a large, dumb dog on a lead.
“I can’t believe they talked to us,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say.
She pulls out a cigarette and offers it to me unthinkingly. I take it and hold it in my hands.
Those are the last things we say to each other before the train comes, nearly three hours later.
Becka says, “I’m getting some more smokes, you want?”
“I haven’t smoked in three years,” I say.
“Well,” she huffs, “I was just asking. Given the circumstances and all.”
I wave her off. I want the cigarette, but the craving will pass.
I shift my position on the bench, sink lower until my back hurts, watch the German couple respond to the announcement. I hate them on sight. She sits on her luggage, her long limbs stretched out, head resting on her hands. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, stares out with his chiseled jaw. They look so healthy, blonde, and young.
Becka comes back, a lit cigarette between her fingers.
“This sucks,” she says.
“You got that right,” I say.
We look down the track, as if staring will make the train come faster. Then, as if tied together, we both turn to the German couple.
“I hate them,” she says. “Fucking cute couple.”
I smile at this. We are in solidarity, she and I.
“Do you think mom would have come?” she asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I think mom would have come,” she says, more certain.
“I don’t know,” I say again.
She takes a drag on the cigarette, blows the smoke out in the direction of the German couple.
“I mean, mom made him whatever he wanted for dinner. He’d say, ‘I want a BLT,’ and she’d just make it like that. Frying bacon and everything. And a beer. She’d get him a beer.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know. You don’t know,” Becca repeats. “What the hell do you know?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I say. “I don’t know. That’s it.”
“I’m freaking out,” she says, “Aren’t you freaking out?”
I shrug. I am still thinking about that cigarette. I haven’t had a cigarette in 3 years, 5 months, and 4 days. I could count the hours. I wonder what he’ll look like when he comes.
“You got that hotel for him,” she asks me, “You booked it right?”
“I booked it,” I say.
“I don’t want him staying with me,” she says, “I’m not ready.”
“I double checked the reservation,” I say, “He’s in the Howard Johnsons.”
“I’m not ready for him to stay with me,” she says again.
“Mom would be here,” I say.
“I think so,” she says. “Mom would take him to the hotel.”
She drags on the cigarette again.
“I don’t mind you staying with me,” she says, “I’m glad you’re here. I want you staying with me.”
“That fucking couple makes me nauseous,” I say. The man is ruffling the girl’s hair as she leafs through a Lonely Planet. She looks up at him and he looks down at her. It churns my stomach.
“I don’t know why they’re here. You’d think they’d be in the city or something,” she says. “Or why aren’t they making little Aryan babies?”
I fake a German accent, “Your cockenspiel it is so big. Fuck me like Arnie.”
Becka starts to laugh. She throws the remains of her cigarette down on the ground and grinds it with the toe of her shoe. I scream, “Noooooooooooo,” in my head, but maybe now the craving will go away.
“At least you came,” Becka says. “I couldn’t do this otherwise. At least you’re here.”
“I think you’d be okay without me,” I say, but I’m not certain.
The couple looks at us. Then the German man walks in our direction. Becka and I look at each other. What is he doing?
“Excuse me,” he says, accent Aryan. “I am sorry to interrupt. I have a question.”
Guidebook English.
“Yeah?” Becka says.
“We look for the a restaurant. Do you have familiarity with the a restaurant?”
Becka looks at me. I haven’t lived in this town for ten years.
“The diner,” I say, “You can try the diner in town. They make good all-day breakfast. You know, eggs and bacon.”
“Thank you,” he says, “Where is the a restaurant?”
“It’s the restaurant, not the a restaurant,” Becka says.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “My English is not very good.”
“You got that right,” Becka says, lighting another cigarette. He doesn’t understand her anyway.
“Where are you from?” he asks Becka.
“Here,” she says, “This shit hole.”
He laughs at the word “shit hole.” Apparently, a word he knows.
“Thank you,” he says, “We are from the Hague. Do you know the Hague?”
We don’t. We say nothing.
“It is in the Netherlands. The Hague is beautiful city.”
Becka nods. I look away.
“Thank you. We go to the restaurant now.”
He leaves. The girl gets up from the luggage and the two of them leave the platform, the luggage trailing behind them like a large, dumb dog on a lead.
“I can’t believe they talked to us,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say.
She pulls out a cigarette and offers it to me unthinkingly. I take it and hold it in my hands.
Those are the last things we say to each other before the train comes, nearly three hours later.
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