Flash Fiction: A story in three minutes or less…just 600 words! Enjoy!
The Fated French Pear Martini
A French pear martini crashed to the floor sending shards of glass everywhere. Marie dove to grab the glass as she exposed her backside briefly. She stood up, beaming red as a man with golden brown eyes knelt down and retrieved the broken stem. “That’s quite the black dress,” he said as he eyed her coyly. Her stomach gave a plummeting lurch. This was no time to regress to tenth grade, her mind firmly demanded. Marie cocked her head to one side as she took him in. A double-breasted pin stripped suit and a red tie made quite a statement. Thank God his mother taught him how to dress.
Marie tossed her brown curls behind her back, puffed out her lips, and replied, “That’s quite the suit you have.” Good girl, her mind purred. The corners of his mouth twitched as he sat down on the stool next to her. The sweet smell of cologne dripped off of him and made her eyes flutter.
He leaned in to her as he whispered, “I’m a closet klutz too, you know.”
She broke down laughing as she replied, “Win some, lose some. I’m Marie.”
He grasped her soft hands as he answered, “Hello, Marie. I’m Marc.”
The steering wheel creaked loudly as Marie rammed her key into her ignition and began scarping ice off the windshield. With each scrape, her pulse quickened. Four weeks had passed with no phone call or text. In no time at all, she parked her car as a little sigh escaped from her lips. She stared at her house. The lights were all off. She knew when she entered her left over’s would be right where she left them the night before. No one to get mad at for eating them. The newspaper turned exactly to the paged where she had stopped. The pillows were perfectly propped up on the couch. Reluctantly, she walked inside and set down her badge, gun, and hat carefully on to the dusty plate mat settings by the door. She scanned the mail she had tossed aside yesterday as her heart stopped. Four Seasons Chicago Hotel. She hadn’t remembered that she paid for the room. Big, fat tears fell onto the bill as her mind flashed back to that night. They ate breakfast in bed while doing the crossword in Chicago Weekly. A pang of dread spread through her as she opened her fridge. Get out of here, her mind screamed.
Marie hands clutched a steaming cup of coffee. TU BA Café’s slogan reflected at her face as she gazed out the window. A couple holding hands walked idly by and Marie fidgeted with her tightly wound bun. She noticed her gun holster staring back at her. Her fingers touched the cold metal delicately. On days like this, cops shouldn’t be allowed to carry a gun, her mind reasoned. Marie let out a light laugh and began skimming through this week’s Chicago Weekly. The coffee she was holding slipped through her fingers as it smashed into the floor.
A waitress looked curiously at the lady who ran out the door. She cursed under her breath as she wiped up the spilt coffee and pushed in the newly vacated chair. She was about to turn away when a giant ad in the middle of the page with black bold type caught her eye. It read: Marie. Wrote down a wrong number. So Sorry. Need to see you again. Don’t know where else to look. I’ll be waiting with a French pear martini and a napkin. Same time. Marc.