The elevator in my building takes twenty seconds, fifth to lobby.
*
The doors lumber open and I face the closed face of the guy from upstairs. Today he’s with a girl. He holds a large dish. The lid’s off – a grilled chicken, knees akimbo. I nip in and dodge the door. The lift whirrs. Dinner glistens in a pond of juices.
The girl is a quirky concoction of pale greys and pinks – bubblegum, salmon, macaroon, milkshake. It’s a frolic, an artwork. She’s sherbet. I’m charmed.
So I say, "Hello."
"Hi" – birdsong.
"Hi" – grudging grunt.
His eyes twitch back to the door. We’ve never spoken but I've sensed – as one does – gays don’t fit his boxy elevator.
Her shoes are confections of sugar, a shimmer of crystalline hairs. She cradles a polystyrene container sheathed in cling-wrap. It twinkles against raspberry fizz.
"And that must be dessert."
She reads me. Slowly, she widens her eyes and, with a flourish, flips it over to reveal a huge bun-like mound embellished with pink frosting and sprinkles.
"Ah, the perfect accessory."
"I’ve taken to pink."
"Non-alcoholic?"
"Well, you can get tipsy on it. But I never pink and drive."
We're grinning at each other.
The lift bumps down. Doors amble open.
"Bye," I say.
"Bye." / "Bye."
One "bye" is rosy cheeked; the other, a bewildered scowl.
*
The post office line is a joy-free zone specialising in boredom. I gaze at the ceiling. I gaze at the floor. I read the chart prohibiting snakes, vermin, human remains… I reread the zip code list. The line inches on in ineffectual spasms. I slouch a spasm, inches nearer the scowling woman behind the counter. She
wields her brutal stamp. Thump. Thump. Please let this end. And suddenly it does as life pops up perched on the counter, legs a-dangle, plump as Buddha, blithe as a bird on a branch. The little guy’s agog as his mother takes the pen tethered to the counter and calmly draws a smiley – disbelief dissolves into utter delight – on his pink, round knee.
wields her brutal stamp. Thump. Thump. Please let this end. And suddenly it does as life pops up perched on the counter, legs a-dangle, plump as Buddha, blithe as a bird on a branch. The little guy’s agog as his mother takes the pen tethered to the counter and calmly draws a smiley – disbelief dissolves into utter delight – on his pink, round knee.
Michael Pettit is an artist from Cape Town, a painter with an academic background in Fine Arts. He also writes. His short stories and poems have appeared in The Barcelona Review, Bookends Review, Thin Skin, and in various anthologies: Meniscus, WestWord Prize (3rd Prize), Parracombe Prize, Bournemouth Writing Prize, MTP Competition (Highly Commended), Hammond House Prize (Editor’s International Choice award, and 1st Prize: song lyrics). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
No comments:
Post a Comment