Felice by 180 Proof
She crossed my mind again. Why don't I call her? I won't, I know it, just like last year. Ever since, 'tis the season to reminisce and let shadows tug at me ... I can't work. Have I been working? Seems like all morning just sitting here staring at the screen staring back at me, neither seeing, and feeling her memory like tonguing a loose tooth. No more coffee on an empty stomach ... I need a shower ...
Still there in my contacts!
"Sorry?"
Big brown eyes, still-young crow's feet. She put her glasses back on.
"I didn't mean to disturb you –"
"No, I –"
"Don't," I said, "you were here first."
"I have allergies is all. Must be someone's perfume or ..."
"Not me, just soap. And no cologne."
She nodded and a strand of grey brushed her temple.
"The coffee's fresh," she said and poured me a cup.
"Thanks." But she didn't leave. I handed her another cup.
"No, no. I don't – coffee. Reminds me of an ex."
The break room was empty and I sipped in silence. "Not a bad guy. We even had a child together. Well, actually, I had the child without telling him."
Those big browns held me.
"Felice," she said quietly to the coffeemaker. "Her name. She looked just like him, my ex, from the day she was born" then back to my coffee cup "I really didn't know the father, and never could tell how much Felice took after him, personality-wise. She wasn't really like me, really, except for her eyes." She looked up with a slight smile. "My girl was a laughing baby. Never cried. A playful little angel."
Burned the tip of my tongue.
"Y-you never told him?"
"He didn't want to know." She blinked away some sudden moist memory. "Anyway, I was right, he married just before Felice laughed her way into my world. No labor pains at all."
Blew on my cup.
"Pictures?" Obligatory courtesy of asking to see other people's precious brats. I promised myself I'd never carry pictures when I have kids. "How old is she?"
In a blink her cell was out and a picture of a brown-eyed preschooler with thick black curls and missing baby teeth was smiling up at me.
"She'd be 10 next month," she said watching my face. "In this picture she's four, it's my favorite."
"Lovely."
"It was taken Christmas morning – she climbed into my bed waking me to open presents."
I nodded and sipped.
"My angel's last Christmas." Dry brown eyes, sad laugh lines. "A very aggressive, rare form of leukemia devoured my Felice by the next Fall."
"So sorry ..." I whispered.
"Your name's not Leukemia, is it? Cause if it is, I have a Glock in my car with a clip of rounds with your name on each one of them. Don't say 'sorry', please. I know what you mean, but don't say that – you didn't do anything. Leukemia ate my baby girl alive and diseases don't say sorry. Even that's unrequited ..."
I handed her a knot of tissues nearly spilling the last of my still hot coffee. Hands free they wanted to hold her as she sobbed for an hour in less than a minute. More loose gray strands on the top of her head of thick black hair. Roots vaguely blond, I think.
"So that's why I don't drink coffee." I took the fresh cup she poured. "Her father was a heavy coffee-drinker because he was a chef, working long shifts and usually hungover. Black coffee, even the smell of it, reminds me of him and of the child he never met and never knew he lost."
Big and brown and unblinking she unsettled me despite the soothe of caffine. I heard myself speak: "The holidays always find ways of torturing us, mostly in small ways, but sometimes ..."
"Yeah ..." She turned her head as if she heard someone in the outer office say her name and checked her watch."You're a listener, I like that. I'd also like to wake up with you on Christmas morning." As if seeing my face for the first time, her sad laugh lines softened. "What do you think?"
I didn't touch the call button. I couldn't. Five years gone already like several lifetimes between strangers even if we'd spent one Christmas together in bed like discarded presents in a Salvation Army bin. Anyway. Maybe after lunch ... I better get some work done before I Zoom with the office later.
Still there in my contacts!
"Sorry?"
Big brown eyes, still-young crow's feet. She put her glasses back on.
"I didn't mean to disturb you –"
"No, I –"
"Don't," I said, "you were here first."
"I have allergies is all. Must be someone's perfume or ..."
"Not me, just soap. And no cologne."
She nodded and a strand of grey brushed her temple.
"The coffee's fresh," she said and poured me a cup.
"Thanks." But she didn't leave. I handed her another cup.
"No, no. I don't – coffee. Reminds me of an ex."
The break room was empty and I sipped in silence. "Not a bad guy. We even had a child together. Well, actually, I had the child without telling him."
Those big browns held me.
"Felice," she said quietly to the coffeemaker. "Her name. She looked just like him, my ex, from the day she was born" then back to my coffee cup "I really didn't know the father, and never could tell how much Felice took after him, personality-wise. She wasn't really like me, really, except for her eyes." She looked up with a slight smile. "My girl was a laughing baby. Never cried. A playful little angel."
Burned the tip of my tongue.
"Y-you never told him?"
"He didn't want to know." She blinked away some sudden moist memory. "Anyway, I was right, he married just before Felice laughed her way into my world. No labor pains at all."
Blew on my cup.
"Pictures?" Obligatory courtesy of asking to see other people's precious brats. I promised myself I'd never carry pictures when I have kids. "How old is she?"
In a blink her cell was out and a picture of a brown-eyed preschooler with thick black curls and missing baby teeth was smiling up at me.
"She'd be 10 next month," she said watching my face. "In this picture she's four, it's my favorite."
"Lovely."
"It was taken Christmas morning – she climbed into my bed waking me to open presents."
I nodded and sipped.
"My angel's last Christmas." Dry brown eyes, sad laugh lines. "A very aggressive, rare form of leukemia devoured my Felice by the next Fall."
"So sorry ..." I whispered.
"Your name's not Leukemia, is it? Cause if it is, I have a Glock in my car with a clip of rounds with your name on each one of them. Don't say 'sorry', please. I know what you mean, but don't say that – you didn't do anything. Leukemia ate my baby girl alive and diseases don't say sorry. Even that's unrequited ..."
I handed her a knot of tissues nearly spilling the last of my still hot coffee. Hands free they wanted to hold her as she sobbed for an hour in less than a minute. More loose gray strands on the top of her head of thick black hair. Roots vaguely blond, I think.
"So that's why I don't drink coffee." I took the fresh cup she poured. "Her father was a heavy coffee-drinker because he was a chef, working long shifts and usually hungover. Black coffee, even the smell of it, reminds me of him and of the child he never met and never knew he lost."
Big and brown and unblinking she unsettled me despite the soothe of caffine. I heard myself speak: "The holidays always find ways of torturing us, mostly in small ways, but sometimes ..."
"Yeah ..." She turned her head as if she heard someone in the outer office say her name and checked her watch."You're a listener, I like that. I'd also like to wake up with you on Christmas morning." As if seeing my face for the first time, her sad laugh lines softened. "What do you think?"
I didn't touch the call button. I couldn't. Five years gone already like several lifetimes between strangers even if we'd spent one Christmas together in bed like discarded presents in a Salvation Army bin. Anyway. Maybe after lunch ... I better get some work done before I Zoom with the office later.
Comments (30)
Objects are often anthropomorphized in stories... this is a refreshing reversal of that trend.
Quoting Baden
Sigh... yes. Humans mistake empathy for apology. The words "sorry" and "I apologize" mean the same, except at a funeral. (I did not make this up. I read this on FaceBook.)
If you been single living the life of a single, you'd know what it's like being a toy in the discard bin at GoodWill. Excellent analogy. This was brilliant.
:smirk:
Quoting Baden
Quoting Baden
Quoting Baden
Quoting Baden
Quoting Baden
These metaphors, similes, and descriptions are stunning.
I really like the writing, and I like the story, but I had trouble understanding what was going on at the same point Noble Dust did above, so that threw me off.
I missed that one. :ok:
Lovely Italian name for a girl, meaning 'Happy' or sometimes 'Fortunate'.
In this case a little bit happy but not so fortunate, depending on the way you look at things.
The sound of happiness in laugher and on the lips:
Fe-LEE-chay. Or something like that.
Not the name of the lady occupying the mind of a man, who is not so felice - a tad on the sad side.
Quoting Baden
He's got it bad. Talking to himself, working up to call or not.
He didn't last year, so why would he now ?
'Tis the season to reminisce - to indulge in nostalgia, dwelling on the past, usually with happy feelings.
But 'shadows tug at me' sounds more like a dark side or a tug-of-war between the two.
Happy heart strings v broken memories. Major to minor and back again. Who's the winner ?
Quoting Baden
Is this guy Italian ? Breakfast there being little more than a shot of dark liquid. Or something like that.
Cue shower scene - I flashback to Dallas - it was only a dream...
So, here the author mixes present and past.
Present: She is still in his contacts - phone list.
And a contact irritation. Grit in his vision like a grain of sand in an oyster.
Then fast flashback to when they first met. 5yrs ago. A merging.
Quoting Baden
She is rubbing her eyes. Tears from an allergic reaction. An office break and she pours coffee for him.
She refuses coffee. It reminds her of an ex and unfortunate circumstances - or fortunate, depending.
Allergic to coffee, memories of the ex, or him standing there up close?
Quoting Baden
Making contact.
Quoting Baden
She didn't really know the father - except Felice looked like him, apart from the brown eyes which were hers. Hmm. Did the father look as happy as Felice ?
Quoting Baden
So, he takes it black and seems taken aback.
Quoting Baden
Why would she be watching his face ? To see if the 10yrs meant anything...?
Quoting Baden
What is he so sorry for...and why in a whisper.
Is there a feeling of guilt or just expressing sympathy.
She rounds on him:
Quoting Baden
Quite a dramatic turn... a nasty cancer transformed and personified.
Her ex. Someone who killed love dead.
Unrequited love. One-sided.
Quoting Baden
Our hero is upset - grabbing a bunch of tissues, letting his cup fall.
Now hands free - 'they wanted to hold'.
What? So he held back, he didn't close in ?
Contact-free. Still.
Quoting Baden
How coincidental - the 2 men in the story - both heavy drinkers, addicted to black coffee...
Quoting Baden
He seems perturbed and reaches out with words to soothe...perhaps on the verge of saying something positive about the holidays ? She cuts him off, only to cut in with a sideways seductive segue...
Quoting Baden
It happened.
Then we slide effortlessly back to the present:
Quoting Baden
Still thinking of her. After all these years. How many ?
Five or fifteen...
Still undecided.
He now works from home.
Safer that way.
Quoting Baden
Does he now ?
A lack of commitment?
He had been about to open up and speak.
To share thoughts about Christmas; the pain and the pleasure of past times...
Almost there but not quite...
--------
Such a sad tale but an angel Felice was born and was happy before flying away...
If you believe to a happier place. Heaven.
Is there a moral ?
Perhaps we should grab the moment without further delay.
[s]Cease[/s] Seize the day. Don't wait until the New Year before making Resolutions.
Act now or forever hold your peace.
But one never knows. The consequences of action/inaction. The tug-of-war.
Nothing is for sure. How do ever decide anything...?
Still, may I wish you all:
Felice Anno Nuovo !
A Happy New Year !
Buon Anno a tutti !
:party:
I raise my glass to the author. A tale well told. Heart felt :hearts:
A mother who has lost her child might use these words. She says it twice. A bit odd/harsh maybe, maybe not given it's been 5 plus years. Possibly finding a hair to split.
A portrait of what could be non-fiction. :up:
One thing about this story that really stuck with me is that I immediately put myself in the break room of a job from 10 years ago as I read it. And it was a time at which I was going through a bad breakup. I felt like I was there.
One of the best things one can say about a fiction. Much appreciated, thanks! :cool:
Quoting Noble Dust
I got that too actually, it's just that I resisted it because it made me depressed. :grin:
A testament to the author's skill, no doubt about it.
A riff on "Feliz Navidad" given the deadline just days before Christmas and the prior discussions about whether or not the submissions should be "Christmas-y" ... Again, like "Good Stew", I needed a title at the last minute but it was obvious this time. "Felice" (story & title) came to me the morning of the deadline after five attempts at scribbling a worthy tale over a couple weeks had misfired. Finally, I free associated and let my subconscious conjure up an autobiographical feeling (tree) on which to hang fictional details (ornaments). By nature / habit I'm a plotter and planner, Amity, but this long hauler "covid brain fog" which still afflicts me kills all plots & plans – oh yeah, the five story-bones I couldn't flesh-out were much more interesting than "Felice" – which has left me at the mercy of involuntary daydreaming (anamnesis?) I suppose I ought to get used to this new 'process' ... Anyway, thanks once again for your thoughtful explorations of my fluky scribble. :hearts: :smirk:
OMG. That is amazing. Magical moments !
Quoting 180 Proof
Clever. Never did that cross my mind.
Quoting 180 Proof
So sorry to hear that.
Quoting 180 Proof
5 stories on your back-burner. The Symposium is gonna fill up fast...or slow...whenever.
Fluky scribble indeed :heart:
What did the narrator know ?
@180 Proof you didn't address this, or other things in my feedback...like the contacts...shower scene.
Quoting Amity
She finds temporary solace in his arms, but the narrator explains it as 'like discarded presents in a Salvation Army bin'. The narrator knew that the love they felt was undone or could never develop by the enormity of her loss. He cannot face it. He cannot work anymore an even the memory is ominous 'she crossed my mind again'. However he cannot bring himself to call, because he knows the futility of it. However always, every Christmas, He is reminded reminded, even after 'several lifetimes'. Would he not rather get rid of it and call? Despite the obvious sympathy for each other she became a haunting spirit of Christmas, a kind of banshee. The narrator fears this knowledge.
(It is though only his perspective, maybe she actually did not feel like a discarded present, maybe she cherishes the memory and for her maybe his not calling is a sign of respect, of letting her be).
That is so deep and insightful. Totally wow'd.
I was thinking of the more shallow question re Felice's paternity...
Now I wonder: Is the narrator also the woman's ex (i.e. was he Felice's father)? :chin:
I hope you're no longer in brain fog, Proof. Sounds like "pots and pans" the last words.
Awww, Proof.
Quoting 180 Proof
The jump here is a cinematic cut, but without a slug line that, in a screenplay, acts as punctuation that makes the particulars of the change clear.
The whole story reads like a dramatic script, with everything coming through either the man's internal monologue as first person narrator, or through the spoken dialogue in the break room.
This is fiction visualized in a movie friendly format.
Quoting 180 Proof
This jarred me because I was experiencing the unnamed woman as a traumatized lover. Perhaps I'm confusing grief over departed Felice with grief over departed one-night-stand. However,
Quoting 180 Proof
keeps me in the undecided category.
Quoting 180 Proof
Quoting 180 Proof
Quoting 180 Proof
I don't suppose that any strong, smart American male, in the wake of Hemingway, can write terse, unsentimental prose that doesn't invoke his ghost. Herein the author upholds the standard admirably.
Quoting 180 Proof
Here the woman seems to almost channel Raymond Chandler. Remove this noirish showboater and the woman immediately sounds like a woman.
180 might want to think about collaborating with a filmmaker seeking a crackin' good short full of nuanced dialogue ready for good actors to sink their teeth.
Keep the good stories coming. That's my reward. :grin: