Broken Rays of a Dying Sun: A Collection of Short Stories

Fetch my Sunglasses, Sugar

Her shallow, black heels clicked on the linoleum as we went out to the balcony. You could see the ocean for miles if you leaned forward and to the right. We sat on those collectively hated and universally owned white, plastic seats that complain with each use. I drummed my fingers on the arm rest; her dress glittered just below her knees as she tapped her foot. She sat forward, chin in palm, manicured finger nails forming crescent reliefs in her cheeks. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses which her fingers occasionally nicked.

She reached for her silver pocketbook and retrieved an aluminum tin of mints. From it, she teased a cigarette and waved the tin closer to me, between two, slender digits.

Have a light? she breathed through half her mouth (the other half being occupied with paper-wrapped tobacco). I fished a lighter from my pocket as she leaned close to me. A sparse flame interrupted our momentary proximity; her perfume smelled of vanilla.

A cigarette in her teeth, she took off her sunglasses and hung them off the neck of her sundress. The weight pulled at the hem; I had to tear my eyes away from visible sliver of her beige brassiere.

Her painted eyes burned deeply against the bruise purpling the apple of her cheek; from her crimson lips came the words: would you like one?

Smoking is a disgusting habit, I told her as I stole my own. I balanced the cigarette on my bottom lip and lit it. She sat back, hiding her tin of vices. She wore a large hat which curved like a wave and overpowered her small face; beneath it, she looked pale in a dry, sickly way, where her eyes were constantly ringed by feverish scarlet. She brushed her short hair, platinum blond hair from her face.

Once, she'd had it to her shoulders, where it had a slight upcurl. Like on the cover of those house making magazines, she said. She had it cut close to her skin just a week later. Looked too much like a housewife, she told me. That would be expected, I told her; only housewives read those magazines. She told me if I wanted to get smart with someone I should go back to university. Then she refused to speak to me for two hours and thirty seven minutes.

Laughter cut the silent air. Children, I reasoned, running after the ice cream truck. I peered down at the adjacent street. The summer sun washed the color away, leaving faintly white obscurities instead of a town street. How more easily my life would have flowed if impurity were cleaned away with the touch of sunlight.

I leaned forward and rested my elbow on the railing. But the building's shadow was too great. Only the ash from my cigarette reached the light. The flittering motes fell with the weight of daggers.

I looked back at her. When unoccupied, her fingers had a way of curling about themselves like a crustacean. Smoke emerged from her lips in three distinct puffs.

Go ahead, she said. Ask then.

Who was it this time?

Her lips flattened. It's none of your business, you know. Let off once in awhile.

Why'd you tell me to ask then?

She brought her legs closer to her, beneath her chair, as though she could flatten herself like a folding chair. She told me: I never know why I do things; never did.

Tell me about your day, darling, she said.

I took a deep breath. I exhaled, watched the smoke drift to the floor of the above balcony.

Yesterday, I heard the two men who resided in the above apartment fucking on their balcony. I reported them to the landlord this morning. She told me she liked them. Those homosexuals always clean up after themselves, she said. Never had to clean up a used rubber.