The Diner

Dressed in her Sunday’s best, she sat alone next to the window watching the sun climb over the whitening tops of the snow-laden trees. The morning light drew back the lines in her face, and her skin was delicate and translucent. For a moment she is a vision of the woman she used to be, and yet when she bowed her head in prayer, the shadows marked the trials of her years. Smoothing out a wrinkle in her pastel-blue skirt, she laid a paper napkin neatly in her lap. Then clasping the cup of tea in front of her with both hands, she carefully lifted it to her lips and sipped at it gently. She smiled quietly at the room around her.

The waitress was sitting anxiously at the counter preparing menus for the Sunday rush, and the bus boy was joking with the cook through the serving window. In the back booth, two disgruntled farmers were discussing the precarious condition of the winter wheat over a neglected short-stack and two black coffees. The front door chimed and a middle-aged couple walked in followed by a brisk wind. The man was carrying a paper under one arm as his wife, still clutching a church bulletin, clung to his other for warmth. They stamped the mud from their galoshes onto the entry mat and shook the chill from their shoulders.

“Good morning John. Dorothy,” said the waitress standing up. “Will you be having coffee this morning?” She snatched the pot from the burner. “Yes, I do believe we will Patricia,” the man replied. “Thank you.” As the diner started to fill with the after-church crowd, the couple removed their coats and made their way to their regular table. The waitress motioned to the bus boy to let the cook alone and then moved quickly up the next aisle with coffee and menus so that she could greet them at their table. “As you know, we’re still serving breakfast,” she said, getting to the table first. “But I have the lunch specials made out and on the menu.”

“Why, good morning Edna,” said the man, stopping to greet the old woman. “You’re looking awfully fashionable this morning.”

The woman looked up at him blankly, and then smiled brightly. “Yes–yes it is a beautiful day.” She paused and looked out the window. “Yes it is, isn’t it?”

Trying to be patient, the waitress stood at their table, menus in place and pen poised to take their order. Looking out across the room she saw the tables were filling up quickly. “We have the hot roast beef on special today, John.” She prompted. “It comes with a vegetable and a salad of course,” she continued. “And we have pecan pie, fresh from the bakery only yesterday.” The man looked over at the waitress, dropped his eyes and looked back at the old woman. “Yes–yes it is a beautiful day, Edna.” He smiled. “How have you been? We haven’t seen you in church in quite some time.”

“Yes, it is quite smart isn’t it?” She smiled, brushing down her collar. “This is my Easter dress. I wear it every Easter Sunday.”

“Yes, as I was saying, you look quite becoming.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It is, isn’t it?”

Her eyes wandered away from the man and she turned her attention to the window. The pear trees in her grandfather’s orchard were white with blossoms, and her laughter echoed kindly through their limbs as she ran barefoot through the garden of her youth. The morning light drew back the lines in her face. Her skin was delicate and translucent. For a moment she was a vision of the woman she used to be, and yet when she bowed her head in prayer, the shadows marked the trials of her years. Clasping the cup of tea in front of her with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and sipped at it gently.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Wrestling with redundancy, he finally finds himself at the edge of night. This is where he tries to hold on to beauty. Sitting down before the typewriter, the blood drips hungrily from his fingertips and he recalls a whisper which once caressed his ear—someday you’re going to miss me. It sits sullenly on his thoughts as he rolls back the recollection, for the memory haunts him with metaphor. Thus he sharpens his wit, threads a piece of paper noisily into the carriage, and begins to type slowly, delicately—deliberately. The room is filled with the repetitive sound of typebars striking the virtue of the paper as the ribbon flows with his thoughts. Suddenly, the phone rings obtrusively from the desktop.

His fingers are poised in predicament. He looks down at the Motorola as is skitters across the desk clamoring for attention. Go away. With each ring, the cigarette ash dances gleefully on the desktop. Go away, damn you. He tries to focus on the task at hand. Nevertheless, the LCD flashes like a migraine in the corner of his eye. Despite all his efforts to ignore the intrusion, it teeters on the brink of his sanity. God damn it! He snatches the phone up abruptly before it skirts capriciously off the edge of the desk. “Hello Charles,” the voice says familiarly. “I just wanted to remind you—she is with me now. Her kisses are slow, her breasts are soft, and her thighs are warm and inviting—she is mine!”

The machine rings with the margin, and stripping the paper from the carriage, he sits back in the chair and reviews his thoughts. He notices the Motorola sitting silently and undisturbed on the desktop, the LCD is dark and lifeless. Picking up the phone, he examines the dark infinity of the display as if searching for something. It had been quite some time since anyone had actually called him; he wasn’t even sure why he kept the cell service. Flipping the phone open, he browses to the contact list and scrolls down until he has highlighted a particular name. He pauses momentarily as the melancholy sinks in, and once again his thoughts roll back with haunting recollection.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Hey, what are you doing up so late, it’s after two in the morning,” he asks trying to juggle the conversation with the post he is working on. “I can’t sleep—I’m scared.” He recognizes the anxiety in her voice and gives her his undecided attention, “Scared? Honey, what are you scared of?” “Dying,” she states matter-of-factly. He is taken aback by her reply and stumbles over his words. “Oh—sweetheart—did you, did you take your meds?” “Yes, a couple of hours ago. They don’t seem to be working and it hurt. It hurts so much,” her voice trembles. He searches for an appropriate response, and yet he is overcome with helplessness “I’m scared—tell me a story.”

“Tell me a story.” The words echo through his mind. Snapping the phone shut, he sets it gingerly back on the desktop trying to distance himself from the reality. “She is with me now—she is mine!” Having almost forgotten the page in hand, he turns his attention back to it with a pang of sentimentality. Placing it beneath a stack of other neatly-kept memoirs he thinks to himself—no, she is with me. Threading another piece of paper noisily into the carriage, he begins to type delicately, but deliberately. I will tell you a story. I will wax you poetry—about life and love and loss and living. The room fills once again with the sound of typebars striking paper as the ribbon flows with his thoughts.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

The Babysitter

Summer smells like fresh-cut grass, and the lawn clippings stick stubbornly to bottoms of his bare feet as he jumps through the sprinkler. Leaving a trail of tiny-wet footprints, he hurries across the hot pavement and sits down beside her on the porch. She tries to ignore him as he looks up at her inquisitively. Sandy-brown hair in a loose bouffant, glasses perched at the end of her nose, she is absorbed in a teen-romance novel and The Mamas and Papas playing on her AM radio. Monday Monday, so good to me. Flicking her cigarette to the side, she acknowledges his presence out of the corner of her eye. His dark-almond eyes sparkle with attention and looking up at her asks. “When are we going to the pool?”

He bats his eyes playfully. “You are so bad, you know that?” He grins up at her innocently and she laughs. “Okay, let me change and I will take you to the pool.” YAY! “God forbid–you might melt.” She teases, and closing her book, digs the car keys out of her purse and tosses them to him. “Go listen to the radio, I’ll be right back,” Keys? “And don’t start the car this time.” Who me? She gives him a fresh look like she might mean it this time. “And I mean it this time!” She emphasizes before the door closes behind her. This time. He palms the car keys in his hand for a moment, then jumping up off the porch, he bounds out to the 65 Ford Galaxie and climbs anxiously into the front seat.

He slips the keys into the ignition–welcome to the KLEO top 40 countdown and we begin today’s slide with Iron Butterfly In a gadda da vida–and scrolls through the stations. Sliding behind the wheel, he attempts to touch the pedals with his toes. He races the engine, va-room, va-room, signaling her that he has arrived. She comes running out the house, her hair still in a loose bouffant, but she has changed blouses and slipped into a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and leather sandals. Hopping into the car beside him, she gives him a quick kiss and sitting back in the seat, shakes a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of Marlboros. “Let’s go,” she exhales. “If my parents see me with you again they will ground me for a month.”

Spinning the tires, he whips the car out of the driveway and thunders down to the end of the block, careening around the corner. He pulls up to the stop sign at Main Street, the fire-breathing 427 rumbling beneath the hood, and looks to her for approval. Exchanging smiles, he coolly turns out onto the main drag. The midsummer’s night is alive with the electricity of teenagers cruising, their radios blaring, shining black chrome glistening in the night. Laying her head out the window, she lets the wind undo her hair and the car is filled with the scent of hairspray. Her features caressed delicately by the passing streetlights, he can’t help but notice the shadows moving beneath the veil of her blouse.

“What are you looking at?” She purrs playfully, and sliding effortlessly across the seat to his side, nuzzles naughtily into the nape of his neck. He can feel the warmth of her thigh pressing against his and the heat of anticipation builds between them as she stokes the fire. Her untamed hair hiding the intent in her eyes, she moves her hand silkily up the inside of his pants leg. “I bet I know what you want,” she whispers warmly. Their eyes meet automatically as the magnitude of her intentions are revealed beneath the dashboard lights. Every fiber of his being is filled with throbbing expectation, and yet as she envelops his eager imagination with something wet and wonderful, his fantasy explodes prematurely.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She snaps at him through the window. “I told you–not to start the car!” She jerks at the door handle and he moves quickly to the other side of the vehicle as she slides in behind the steering wheel. He can’t help but notice the shapely black bikini visible beneath her white blouse. “And just what do you think you’re looking at?” She smiles at him knowingly. He tries to escape the question but there is no place to run, and then it suddenly occurs to him that there are no secrets between them. He smiles back cleverly and she laughs out loud. “You are so bad, you know that?” Shaking her head to herself, she slips the car into reverse and after backing out of the drive, turns towards Main Street.

Summer smells like fresh-cut grass and the sound of The Mamas and Papas playing on the AM radio. Monday Monday, so good to me. Summer is the repetitive echo of tires on a brick-paved avenue as they drive down Main Street. Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be. Driving downtown, summer is the elderly-black man sitting patiently on the step of his shoeshine stand as the townsfolk move in and out of the drugstore exchanging gossip. Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be. Summer is the whisper of cottonwoods as they pull into the park, and the laughter of children splashing in the pool. Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave and not take me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 201

The Incubus

The Victorian house towers before her as she comes up the ornate pebble walk, its shadow crossing the street in the setting sun. She had spent weeks scouring real estate brochures for the perfect home in the perfect neighborhood, searching for something comfortable and reflective of her refined tastes. She had almost relinquished herself to spending another winter in the city, when one summer evening, she discovered the home tucked away in a prestigious neighborhood of a small community just outside the edge of town. Not surprisingly, he seller was asking too much. However, there was no price she wouldn’t pay for her solitude and thus began moving into the distinguished residence in the fall.

The home was certainly more than she required, having only needed to furnish a small penthouse in the city. However, she had been buying and storing antiques in hopes that one day she would find a suitable house to situate them. In view of that, she was there to supervise the move. Standing watch at the garden’s edge, she bit her lip anxiously as the moving van backed into the length of the cobblestone drive. Admiring the antiquity of the furnishings as they were being unloaded, she cautioned the workers against a painful death should anything be damaged. All the same, they were quite mindful of the value of each piece and bore them respectfully to its rightful room without question.

She had also acquired several Persian rugs for the house. A large golden Tabriz was placed in the Great Room, its earthen tones contrasting beautifully with the rich wood of the Louis XV furniture nicely as well as bringing out the blondes of their upholstery. Comparatively, she had several runners for the hallways, two elegantly colored Hamadans and a vibrant Heriz for the foyer. The dining room played host to a subtly patterned Turkomon and a long-leafed table with high-backed chairs. A golden-flowered Kashan went to the bedroom, its rich reds and deep blues supporting a Queen Anne cherry-wood vanity and similarly fashioned four-poster bed with canopy. A woman can never be too comfortable, she maintained.

She spent the better part of that weekend having the movers arrange everything. The Louis XVI mirrored armoire was, of course, placed in the bedroom, while the Chippendale china hutch, with its two beveled-glass doors, fit perfectly at the end of the dining room. She finished the move by setting the George II clock, its long walnut case and gold face intricately detailed, at the bottom of the stairs. If I put it here, the chimes will be heard throughout the house, she smiled expectantly as she watched the steady swing of its pendulum. At last the move was complete; however, she had another week in the city tying up loose ends before she could spend the night. I'll be back soon, she pledges intimately and locks the door behind her.

As promised, she has returned to find herself admiring the cornice work of her new home as she climbs the front steps, the soffits festooned with arcs of wooden lace. On the side of the porch the formal dining room is on display, bedecked by her gabled bedroom. A balcony and black-iron rail transverse the porch roof to a sitting room in the two-story bay, its narrow windows symmetrically stacked as its segmented roof spirals into the dusk. A stone chimney projects high above the tile cap of the main ridge, its flue exhaling heat into the cool evening air while the entire structure is flanked by two soaring white oaks with whispering leaves. She is openly pleased with her purchase, and retires momentarily in the porch’s swing.

It’s good to be home, she admits. I have the entire weekend ahead of me. Suddenly, it occurs to her that he hasn’t called on her all week; she had been so busy getting settled into her new home that she hadn’t even noticed. Instinctively, she looks at her watch as if expecting him to arrive at any moment. I wonder why he hasn’t called, she asks herself, last weekend had been positively splendid–dinner, theatre, dancing the night away under the stars–or was it the weekend before? She ponders, and tries to retrace the memory. Oh bother, she concedes. I don’t have time for this; he will call–they always call. All she really wants to do right now was sink into a hot bath with a good book and a warm memory.

Hearing laughter; she notices children across the street. Instead of dwelling on her latest suitor’s apparent discount, she abandons herself to the harmony of the neighborhood. The fact that the brood are scattering the fallen leaves quicker than their father can rake them amuses her. She remembers how she used to torment her father in the same way when she was a little girl. More Daddy, make another pile, please– I’m trying, sweetheart, I’m trying. The portrait of a woman on the porch holding a baby mysteriously appears over the man’s shoulder. Feeling incomprehensibly incomplete, her heart sinks. Damn it Daddy, why hasn’t he called, she lashes out in her mind. Consequently, she shifts her attention.

A barn owl calls out in the distance, its lonesome cry reverberating hauntingly through the limbs of the neighborhood trees. She intuitively tilts her head in its direction and yet before she can attune herself to beauty of its lament, another returns the call from a different direction. Subsequently, a similar owl perched across the street cocks its head inquisitively at the family below and answers somberly as well. However, the gentle graveness within the owl’s evening communiqué stirs a melancholy within her. She cannot help but think that her attentions, no matter how reserved or misplaced, have been disregarded. The fool is patronizing me, she deduces unforgivingly. Well then–we shall see to that.

Decidedly, she gathers her self-esteem and sashays seductively out to the garden alongside the approach. The purpose within her stride reveals the shapeliness of her legs as her dress flows fluidly back over her advancing figure. Thus, endeavoring to drop a hint, she picks up her skirt and kneels down at the garden’s edge and starts to put together a spray of flowers for the foyer. The veil of the dress stretches enlighteningly across her thighs as her proposal hovers invitingly over the ground. Looking innocently over her shoulder, she is pleased to see that she has caught her neighbor’s undivided attention as he stands smitten in his yard, offspring perpetually tugging at his pant leg.

Bouquet in hand, she stands with her back still to her voyeur. Pulling the folds of her skirt back over her thighs, she plucks the cleft delicately from her peach. Subsequently, she spins on one heel glides back to the porch in long-slow-deliberate steps. She smiles mischievously as she feels her neighbor’s stare on her back and giggles naughtily when a door slams impulsively behind her. She glows accordingly and acknowledges the building warmth of her own desire. Yes, we shall see to that as well. She casts one last tempting glance at her admirer, and climbing the porch playfully, enters her new residence with a measure of accomplishment and renewed sense of sexual expectation. He will call–they always call.

To be continued.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2002 - 2010

The Bridge

I saw her standing alone on the bridge, shivering within the cold embrace of the autumn rain. A portrait of solitude, I fell to studying the lines of her loneliness. Her hair was wet and disheveled by the grieving skies, and the contrast of darkened eyes set deep in alabaster skin reflected the melancholy of the day. Thus she was weeping; her tears falling silently into the running waters below. Perhaps she was in hopes they would sweep her sadness out to sea, and yet as her tears mingled with the rushing current, I could not tell her anguish from the rain. Thus, I was moved by the ambiguity of her emotion, and set out to soothe the sorrow which seemingly tore at her heart.

As I slid my hand up the stone rail, I noticed the sharp radius of the bridge’s arc. Its spirit dampened by the rain as well, the smoothness of its paving stones appeared slippery. Regardless, I gathered a foothold on fate and started up the incline; seemingly, she was still unaware of my presence. Thus, with each careful step I felt the humility of labor in every stone. I admired the bridge’s design, an exquisite example of architecture hidden back in these prideful woods. It was seemed fitting that something so beautiful would traverse something so serene. Suddenly, I stopped; she was looking over her shoulder, and yet quickly turning away, curiously–pretended I wasn’t there.

Taking a deep breath, I carried on unassumingly, and yet with every step I felt my heart pound with concern. Perhaps she might jump–I could not imagine. Trying to put myself at ease, I continued to study the design of the bridge. The foundations on either side of the river appeared visibly sound, as if age had only strengthened them, and at the foot of each stood a single streetlamp, which glowed even in the gloom of the day. As I reached the apex of the bridge, I could feel the rush of the waters beneath me. Still, I felt secure enough upon its suspension to approach the poor woman and attempt to mend her despair. Sadly, I was met with considerable contempt.

She glared at me defensively, and drawing an air of disapproval, closed the curtain of her isolation. Consequently I felt quite disregarded, and yet it occurred to me that she was only allowing me within the perimeter of her presence. Apparently, she was more willing to allow me break my own heart upon hers than I thought. Thus, stepping through her ruse, I removed my raincoat and placed it gently around her trembling white shoulders. Pulling a length of hair behind one ear, she looked up at me halfheartedly, and seeing my Armani soaking up the weather, forced a smile. Taking my hand, she pulled it sympathetically beneath the shelter of the coat and squeezed it tightly.

“What took you so long –damn it?” She asked.

“Forgive me–I lost my keys.”

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Vanity

In the evenings, she found her comfort in the cushion of an ottoman, sitting down softly in front of her own reflections–a three-mirrored vanity of Victorian origin. Despite its apparent antiquity, the surface of the dainty dresser was still polished and unmarred and housed one slender drawer whose brass handle is starting to show signs of tarnish. Each mirror, a center one flanked by two narrower ones, was lovingly farmed in cherry wood while the cabinet’s long and willowy legs fell curvaceously to the floor, ending in wooden cat’s paws. It was here, within the warm caress of a fine chardonnay, that she reviewed the items of the day as well as the articles of her life.

Organized atop her cherished repose were vials of scented oils and memoirs. On the right lay a horsehair brush, its silver back embossed with rose petals and vines, attended by a similarly engraved fine-tooth comb. There were assorted barrettes and hair ties and a jeweled French comb which held a particular place of prestige. Across the back, beneath the mirrors, stand several assorted perfumes, lotions, and crèmes of jasmine and lavender. A copy of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Adonais, its corners curled and tan, sits conveniently on her left as she picks up the silver-handled brush. Thumbing the horsehair bristles softly; she looks into the mirror on her left and begins to reminisce about the past.

Drawing the brush slowly through her hair, she remembers how her mother used to brush it every night when she was a little girl. She used to pull her golden tresses behind each ear and tenderly, cupping her cherub cheeks in the mirror’s reflection, assured her of the hidden beauty of which a looking glass cannot reveal. She imagines her mother still standing behind her in the mirror’s reflection, her eyes bright and full of life. Warmed by the memory, she gently sits the brush back in its proper place–not so far away that it isn’t still close to her heart. The image of her mother in the mirror slowly disappears, and yet the warmth of her touch remains.

Holding the length of her hair back with one hand, she fumbles for a barrette with the other while gazing into the center mirror, reflecting on the present. The French comb finds her hand and she began to secure her freshly-tended tresses. An ambiguous if not noncommittal gift, she thought; after all this time, what had he seen or not seen in me, she inquired of the mirror. Affixing the jeweled barrette, she examined each cheek in the mirror looking for that veil of beauty. Her features were still strong and angular, and yet her eyes were beginning to reveal the pangs of living. Thus pouring another glass of wine, she repositions herself with a huff and downs the entire ration.

Refilling her glass, she looks into the mirror on her right and tries to focus on the future. Her left hand drifts to the paperback and caresses its cover. It is soft with sentiment, and she is overcome by her loneliness as she recalls a particular passage of verse–The breath whose might I have invoked in song, descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven. Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng whose sails were never to the tempest given; the massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

Sitting the wineglass gently down on the polished wood, her gaze drops slowly from the mirror’s reflection and she begins to weep. Running her fingers softly over the tarnishing brass handle, the drawer slides silently out on its rails as she opens the cache of her secrets–bundles of aging letters bound by the confessions of undying love of which she was too good to reciprocate the affections. Where are you now, she thinks; that here in the remainder of my life, this cushion offers little comfort compared to the warmth of the love you professed to me. If I never said I loved you, it was only because I could not say it enough. Closing the drawer, her tears run warm with the absolution of which she cannot even forgive herself.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010