Fiction

I never – ever – write fiction.

Today is a first. I’ve joined an amazing writing challenge for the month of August. Today the writing prompt was:

Write a short story about yourself as if you were psychic and able to read the thoughts of those around you. A brief character study of the inner workings of the people around you.

For this task, I decided I would choose one customer from the market where I work on Mondays to build a story around. It isn’t exactly what the prompt asked us to do, but I definitely think that it is in the same vein. The prompts are meant to inspire and challenge us, to stretch us beyond our usual writing – which is exactly what happened tonight. So here it is. And let me tell you, this was SOOOO much fun.

Day of Dichotomy

He approaches the table, like clockwork, as he does every Monday afternoon. Initially, he would wait in line, catch my eye, and then place his order. Now, after so many consecutive Mondays, he has no need to call out his drink. There is a familiar ease to our interaction, a predictability I think we both appreciate. Peter saddles up to the side of my table, eager for our quick exchange. Today there is a crowd of customers. It’s the holiday after all and nothing is open. I’ve already seen Peter across the courtyard, so even while I serve someone else, I’m aware that when I turn back to my blender, he’ll be there. Waiting patiently, of course (Peter never interrupts). But at the ready, six dollars in hand.  “Large green smoothie,” I say as I hand him his drink, by the side of the table. There will always be something special about an exchange taking place not across the table, but beside it. An intimacy – a knowing – comes from the familiarity of a side-by-side interaction. No barriers, I suppose. Peter flashes a big smile, takes his first large sip (like he always does). “Mmmm!” he exclaims, giving me a big thumbs up with the other hand as he backs away and heads off towards his car. All I know about Peter is that every Monday he puts his farmers’ market purchases in the car before popping back over to me, empty-handed, save for six dollars, ready to grab his smoothie.

Peter braces for the Day of Dichotomy before he has even opened his eyes. There is a resounding predictability in his entire day, but some mornings he actually gives himself a moment, the briefest of moments, to imagine a different outcome. After a deep breath, he lifts his lids, turns his gaze towards the bathroom door. It is framed in bright light and he knows she’s awake. Knows that behind the door his day is being planned and will be dictated to him. Not that there is ever any variation, rarely. The only saving grace for Peter was the holiday Monday 8 months ago. While the ultimate outcome is still the same, at least the space in between has been altered.

He pops out of bed, heads down the hall to his bathroom. The tiniest powder room is where Peter cleans his teeth, splashes cold water on his face, and takes another briefest of moments to scrutinize himself. His eyes tell a story he still isn’t ready to hear. Behind their blue, he knows that there is a different ending, somehow. A door slams and he’s jolted back into the present moment. He slips out of the bathroom and into the kitchen – Peter has become so good at moving like a ghost. Two pieces of bread into the toaster, jam jar and butter dish on the table. Breakfast must always be ready or she’ll make him pay.

“Are you kidding me? It’s not even…” she starts, but Peter is ready for his dance, gliding from the counter to the table in one fluid motion, delivering the perfectly toasted bread on a perfectly clean plate to his perfectly impatient wife. She’s frustrated at having lost an opportunity to bitch at Peter.

She bites into the toast, chomping down with no regard for the “chew with your mouth closed” manner. Crumbs fly from her lips, landing around the plate, as if even the littlest bits of bread want to get as far from her as possible. Disgusted though he is, Peter feels strangely happy for those crumbs. Their destiny is now the compost once he cleans up after her – they at least get to experience a nicer ending than her digestive disarray.

With a full mouth – naturally – she starts again. “Seriously, the windows! What the fuck is taking you so long to get to them?” He doesn’t even need to turn back to her from the sink to know that her face is contorting wickedly. Peter lifts an arm, pointing towards the fridge schedule. It’s written in bold black marker on a wipe-and-write stick-on decal. Though he wants to scream, “Can’t you read your own fucking writing?” he doesn’t, opting to avoid further discourse.

“Oh. Fine, whatever,” she snorts. The fridge clearly indicates that Tuesday is CLEAN DAMN WINDOWS day, while Monday – today – is ERRANDS day. Errands Day could mean anything, but it always includes food. Which is when, eight months ago, Monday became the Day of Dichotomy for Peter. His wife is the absolute meanest on Mondays. There is nothing she likes on TV (“So you think you can dance?” she chortles, “So you think I give a shit?”), she’s usually hungover from Sugar Sunday (“I love having a day to eat whatever I want!”), and though she hasn’t worked in 9 years, she seems to still harbour disdain for the day after the weekend. Everyone gets the Monday blues, but Peter, he gets the Monday blacks.

But then, a reprieve came out of nowhere one day. Errands Day was always on a Thursday, but eight months ago, Peter’s wife decided she was changing the schedule. It was the Monday morning after Thanksgiving. Peter came out into the kitchen to find his wife already in there, a full thirty minutes ahead of schedule. He peered around the corner, holding his breath, incredibly nervous for what he might find. And there she was, aggressively scrubbing the whiteboard marker off the schedule, clumsily filling out a new plan. “I’m so fucking tired of the same old shit. The days are changing, Peter. Get ready. Today is Errands Day now. And have I got a list for you. I had a dream I was dying because you never cook anything healthy for me. I swear you are probably purposefully trying to kill me. Well, no longer, asshole. Today I want fruit and vegetables added to the list”.

He hesitated, unsure of what might come next, what would happen when he threw a wrench in her plan. He was stuck, no choice but to tell her the truth. “Well,” he began. “It’s a holiday today, so nothing is open.” He braced himself, of course the onslaught was coming.

She looked up from the schedule, the newly carved out plan for Peter’s week. In her hand was a thick, black Sharpie. Permanent, it seemed. “Then I suggest you fucking figure something out, idiot. Unless my dream was actually a vision! Are you seriously telling me you are trying to fucking kill me?”

Peter shook his head without saying a word. Her face smug as she turned back to the schedule, his wife added the last chore to his week. SCRUB TOILETS and RUB MY FEET were emblazoned on Saturday’s space. ‘Great,” he thought, “something to look forward to”. Peter grabbed a couple of shopping bags (“I’m not paying a fucking cent for plastic bags! Those assholes can’t swindle me!”) and headed for the door. At least he was leaving the house, but where he was going, Peter had no idea.

By the time he returned to his car that first afternoon, Peter had counted fourteen people who said hello to him. Two people even asked how his day was going and whether he thought it was going to rain later or not. One person asked his name! Five people offered him a sample of their goods (Pickles! Hummus! Crackers! Chocolate! Wiiiiiiiiiine!!!). Four people played old covers on their guitars and bass drum under a green awning. The lighting was terrible, but the tunes were amazing. Peter threw a loonie in their gig bag as he went by. Children were laughing and dancing under a tent marked “Kids Activities” – one small girl even waved to him. His three grocery bags were quickly filled with all of the things on the list. As he walked back to his car, Peter couldn’t believe his luck. Couldn’t believe how he had just spent his afternoon. Closing the trunk, he looked up to see two young people, strolling by with green drinks in their hands. As he began to speak, he could hardly believe that he was about to talk to a stranger. “Where did you get those drinks?” he inquired. They pointed to the back corner of the market, over to a tall white tent with a sign that said “Food. Full Circle”. Peter patted his pant pocket, feeling quite a few coins left over from the shopping. He had no idea if he had enough for the drink – heck, he didn’t even know what the drink was! Strolling over to the corner tent, he caught the eye of the girl behind the table. She had her hand on the top of the blender and she smiled at him as he approached. All he could think was maybe one day she would know his name too.

“How was the shopping?” she screamed from the back room. “Did you screw it up, dipshit?”

“No,” he called, “It was actually f-”. The TV cut him off; she had ramped it up to full volume. Peter turned to the mirror, hanging just inside the doorway. There was something different about his eyes today. “It was actually fucking fantastic,” he said aloud, to no one but himself.