I've run out of ideas - now what?
I've totally run out of ideas on what to blog about. Life is rolling along - it's busy and productive but nothing share-worthy. So, what do I do with the blog - you know, the one I post to every Saturday at midday (AEST), without fail? I post a free short story, that's what. I'll also put this one up on my website with the other free stories.
A little while ago I decided to write a series of short stories exploring relationships between women. I began the research in all earnestness but it didn't last long. My imagination took over and I almost immediately began to ask 'what if...'. This story is the result of one of my responses to that question.
MAKING FRIENDS I sit and watch her as she speaks. Her glistening red lips pout around even white teeth as she talks. I lick my lips, almost tasting the crushed raspberry colour, and take a photograph.
We see each other every few months, always with the same group. It’s rare we’re alone like this. I gave her my phone number but she hasn’t called. She’s just returned from France and describes how the rancid pollution mixes with the sweetness of fresh-baked rolls to create the unique fragrance of Paris. She loves the way the vibrant colours of gardens in bloom, juxtaposed with jewel-bright clothing, complement the rush of the language as people call to each other in the street and the strident beeping of car horns. To me, it sounds overwhelming. Then she talks about a work colleague. They walk to their cars together every afternoon and stand on the footpath talking. I already know their problems. I was there.
A dozen jangling bangles climb her forearms as her hands wave around the tufted halos of purple hair framing her pixie face. Her Italian sandals have disks of silver around the ankle that tinkle every time she moves. There’s charcoal on her palms today.
Her paint-encrusted fingers float around her head as she talks. The light glints off two gaudy flower petal rings on her right hand as she lays it on my forearm. Her skin is warm.
“You can see the opportunity, can’t you, Julie? I couldn’t say ‘no’.”
I can’t remember what she was talking about so I say ‘of course’ and take another photograph.
I ask her about her work. She has a real job, which has always surprised me. Her art fills her so completely I didn’t think she’d have time for anything else. Not like me. I have too much time. She works with small children who’ve been abused, teaching them to draw and paint as a way of releasing the horrors. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to her. No one taught me how to paint.
The others join us in a rush, coming one after the other almost as if they’d stood outside on the footpath and decided who’d come in first. I sit back, my short time alone with her at an end. They’ve known her longer.
They each do the rounds, giving air kisses to everyone. Their words are like birds’ twitter, falling all over the place, jumbling in my mind.
“Hi Karen. You have such a great place. Thanks for suggesting we come here instead of going out.”
“I’ve had a horror day. It’s good to have something like this to make it better.”
“You and Brian well?”
“Hey, Julie. How’s the internet business going?”
I must have mentioned that at one time but I can’t remember doing so. I turn to Marcy, ready to answer, but she’s already moved on to the next one. They catch each other up on their lives, watching indulgently as their children reintroduce themselves on the other side of the room then disappear through a door. I can’t share that either. I have no children.
The conversation becomes more disjointed in my ears. I’m not sure how much each of them hears; they never stay focused on one person long enough to hear an answer.
I lift my camera and take more photographs. Every time I point the camera at a segment of the group, the faces turn, lean in close together and smile until the flash goes off, then they separate and pick up the conversation, often in mid-sentence.
Marcy turns back to me and stays long enough to hear my answer to her question. Karen is half-turned away, fingers flying as she talks to someone else. I take another photograph.
The music is turned up and food brought out. The plates are scattered along low tables, just a few inches out of easy reach. I shift to the edge of the chair, pick up a canapé, then slide back into the hollow and pick the topping off my blouse. It’s caviar. My blouse is white.
I don’t join the conversation. Choosing schools or music teachers means nothing to me. I scrub at the stain on my blouse with a paper napkin as I watch Karen’s animated face then I get up and move around the furniture. Marcy finds me at the end of the room. She’s always watching me and, this year, she’s friendly too.
“You always take lots of photos, Julie. Can I phone you to arrange to get some copies?”
I smile. “I’ll email you copies as soon as I can.” Phones demand my attention. Karen’s the only one I’ve given my number to.
“Take some of the children too,” Marcy says. “They grow so quickly it’s hard to keep up with the changes.”
I nod and smile, and take the photos. I hope my impatience at being drawn away from Karen doesn’t show.
Marcy puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me back to the group. “Take some of Karen, too,” she whispers. I resist shoving her hand away. The music gets louder and someone turns on a revolving coloured light. I can hear only snippets of conversation.
“The first time I drove the car …”
“… I got a permanent position …”
“… born on Thursday …”
Karen flops down next to me. She flings her arm around my neck and drags me into a hug.
“Did you see Julie’s photos from last time?” she asks Marcy. “They’re brilliant aren’t they?” Her knuckles brush against the top of my breast. Can she feel my heart pounding? I let my head drop back, just for a moment, to feel her warm breath on my cheek.
Marcy winks at me before she answers Karen. I push myself upright, grabbing another canapé to hide the sudden heat in my cheeks. When Marcy grins at me I realise my hand is on Karen’s knee. I snatch it away and move, putting some space between us. I can hear my breathing and the music. The sudden coolness of the air between Karen and me makes me shiver and when she turns to talk to someone else Marcy winks again. I take a photo of her.
They drag a few tables aside, clearing a space for dancing. One of them grabs my arm and pulls me with them. I bounce around for a while, hoping I don’t look too foolish. Karen’s beside me and I pretend I can feel the heat of her body. She moves away, animated, absorbed in the moment, her dirty fingers flying. I watch as she taps her feet, her bright hair shining like a rainbow in the moving light. I slip away from the dance floor and take more photos, moving around the edges of the room, staying behind people and furniture. Out of the way, unnoticed.
They keep talking while they dance. Some of the children join them.
The click of the shutter and whir of the focussing mechanism are possibly just my imagination. The music is so loud now the floor is vibrating to the beat. The room becomes a blur of movement and faces, separate from reality, caught for a fraction of a second by the shutter. The lights flash red, blue and yellow on pallid or rosy cheeks.
I keep moving, keep pressing the shutter button. After a while I notice fewer people dancing. They’re beginning to leave. I go back to the couches, settle myself and take more photos as everyone gathers their things. Marcy leans over the back of the couch as she grabs her bag and whispers ‘Go for it’ in my ear. I open my mouth to tell her to go to hell but can’t. My throat closes as I see Karen kneel on the opposite couch and lean over the back of it. She comes up with someone’s bag and I begin to breathe again.
I’m the last to go, watching through the view finder between the leaves in the neighbour’s yard as she locks the doors and draws curtains as red as her lips. The night is over.
I drive home slowly then download the photos and edit them. The ones I took of Marcy make her look fat. I send photos to them all then delete the ones I don’t want to keep. I finish printing and by breakfast the wall is full again.
Every photo is of Karen.
I smile. I’ve done well this time. I’ve managed to capture more of her faces. That one of the soft half-smile, white teeth barely visible between glistening red lips is the sexy bitch. The one of her hand pushing through her purple hair, smudges of paint around the nails matching the vibrant colour, is the slob bitch. The one of her kneeling over the couch, just her jeans-clad buttocks and backs of her thighs visible, is the slut bitch. It’s my favourite.
I check the calendar. Three months til the next party. I wonder how many photos of her I can take before then.
A little while ago I decided to write a series of short stories exploring relationships between women. I began the research in all earnestness but it didn't last long. My imagination took over and I almost immediately began to ask 'what if...'. This story is the result of one of my responses to that question.
MAKING FRIENDS I sit and watch her as she speaks. Her glistening red lips pout around even white teeth as she talks. I lick my lips, almost tasting the crushed raspberry colour, and take a photograph.
We see each other every few months, always with the same group. It’s rare we’re alone like this. I gave her my phone number but she hasn’t called. She’s just returned from France and describes how the rancid pollution mixes with the sweetness of fresh-baked rolls to create the unique fragrance of Paris. She loves the way the vibrant colours of gardens in bloom, juxtaposed with jewel-bright clothing, complement the rush of the language as people call to each other in the street and the strident beeping of car horns. To me, it sounds overwhelming. Then she talks about a work colleague. They walk to their cars together every afternoon and stand on the footpath talking. I already know their problems. I was there.
A dozen jangling bangles climb her forearms as her hands wave around the tufted halos of purple hair framing her pixie face. Her Italian sandals have disks of silver around the ankle that tinkle every time she moves. There’s charcoal on her palms today.
Her paint-encrusted fingers float around her head as she talks. The light glints off two gaudy flower petal rings on her right hand as she lays it on my forearm. Her skin is warm.
“You can see the opportunity, can’t you, Julie? I couldn’t say ‘no’.”
I can’t remember what she was talking about so I say ‘of course’ and take another photograph.
I ask her about her work. She has a real job, which has always surprised me. Her art fills her so completely I didn’t think she’d have time for anything else. Not like me. I have too much time. She works with small children who’ve been abused, teaching them to draw and paint as a way of releasing the horrors. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to her. No one taught me how to paint.
The others join us in a rush, coming one after the other almost as if they’d stood outside on the footpath and decided who’d come in first. I sit back, my short time alone with her at an end. They’ve known her longer.
They each do the rounds, giving air kisses to everyone. Their words are like birds’ twitter, falling all over the place, jumbling in my mind.
“Hi Karen. You have such a great place. Thanks for suggesting we come here instead of going out.”
“I’ve had a horror day. It’s good to have something like this to make it better.”
“You and Brian well?”
“Hey, Julie. How’s the internet business going?”
I must have mentioned that at one time but I can’t remember doing so. I turn to Marcy, ready to answer, but she’s already moved on to the next one. They catch each other up on their lives, watching indulgently as their children reintroduce themselves on the other side of the room then disappear through a door. I can’t share that either. I have no children.
The conversation becomes more disjointed in my ears. I’m not sure how much each of them hears; they never stay focused on one person long enough to hear an answer.
I lift my camera and take more photographs. Every time I point the camera at a segment of the group, the faces turn, lean in close together and smile until the flash goes off, then they separate and pick up the conversation, often in mid-sentence.
Marcy turns back to me and stays long enough to hear my answer to her question. Karen is half-turned away, fingers flying as she talks to someone else. I take another photograph.
The music is turned up and food brought out. The plates are scattered along low tables, just a few inches out of easy reach. I shift to the edge of the chair, pick up a canapé, then slide back into the hollow and pick the topping off my blouse. It’s caviar. My blouse is white.
I don’t join the conversation. Choosing schools or music teachers means nothing to me. I scrub at the stain on my blouse with a paper napkin as I watch Karen’s animated face then I get up and move around the furniture. Marcy finds me at the end of the room. She’s always watching me and, this year, she’s friendly too.
“You always take lots of photos, Julie. Can I phone you to arrange to get some copies?”
I smile. “I’ll email you copies as soon as I can.” Phones demand my attention. Karen’s the only one I’ve given my number to.
“Take some of the children too,” Marcy says. “They grow so quickly it’s hard to keep up with the changes.”
I nod and smile, and take the photos. I hope my impatience at being drawn away from Karen doesn’t show.
Marcy puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me back to the group. “Take some of Karen, too,” she whispers. I resist shoving her hand away. The music gets louder and someone turns on a revolving coloured light. I can hear only snippets of conversation.
“The first time I drove the car …”
“… I got a permanent position …”
“… born on Thursday …”
Karen flops down next to me. She flings her arm around my neck and drags me into a hug.
“Did you see Julie’s photos from last time?” she asks Marcy. “They’re brilliant aren’t they?” Her knuckles brush against the top of my breast. Can she feel my heart pounding? I let my head drop back, just for a moment, to feel her warm breath on my cheek.
Marcy winks at me before she answers Karen. I push myself upright, grabbing another canapé to hide the sudden heat in my cheeks. When Marcy grins at me I realise my hand is on Karen’s knee. I snatch it away and move, putting some space between us. I can hear my breathing and the music. The sudden coolness of the air between Karen and me makes me shiver and when she turns to talk to someone else Marcy winks again. I take a photo of her.
They drag a few tables aside, clearing a space for dancing. One of them grabs my arm and pulls me with them. I bounce around for a while, hoping I don’t look too foolish. Karen’s beside me and I pretend I can feel the heat of her body. She moves away, animated, absorbed in the moment, her dirty fingers flying. I watch as she taps her feet, her bright hair shining like a rainbow in the moving light. I slip away from the dance floor and take more photos, moving around the edges of the room, staying behind people and furniture. Out of the way, unnoticed.
They keep talking while they dance. Some of the children join them.
The click of the shutter and whir of the focussing mechanism are possibly just my imagination. The music is so loud now the floor is vibrating to the beat. The room becomes a blur of movement and faces, separate from reality, caught for a fraction of a second by the shutter. The lights flash red, blue and yellow on pallid or rosy cheeks.
I keep moving, keep pressing the shutter button. After a while I notice fewer people dancing. They’re beginning to leave. I go back to the couches, settle myself and take more photos as everyone gathers their things. Marcy leans over the back of the couch as she grabs her bag and whispers ‘Go for it’ in my ear. I open my mouth to tell her to go to hell but can’t. My throat closes as I see Karen kneel on the opposite couch and lean over the back of it. She comes up with someone’s bag and I begin to breathe again.
I’m the last to go, watching through the view finder between the leaves in the neighbour’s yard as she locks the doors and draws curtains as red as her lips. The night is over.
I drive home slowly then download the photos and edit them. The ones I took of Marcy make her look fat. I send photos to them all then delete the ones I don’t want to keep. I finish printing and by breakfast the wall is full again.
Every photo is of Karen.
I smile. I’ve done well this time. I’ve managed to capture more of her faces. That one of the soft half-smile, white teeth barely visible between glistening red lips is the sexy bitch. The one of her hand pushing through her purple hair, smudges of paint around the nails matching the vibrant colour, is the slob bitch. The one of her kneeling over the couch, just her jeans-clad buttocks and backs of her thighs visible, is the slut bitch. It’s my favourite.
I check the calendar. Three months til the next party. I wonder how many photos of her I can take before then.
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