Dinner: Advil Dessert: Wine

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Dinner and dessert

Submitted: May 29, 2009

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Submitted: May 29, 2009



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Dinner: ten pops of Advil.

They sink heavy in her hand for the first five; then like a magic trick, Dara begins to feel them floating. She laughs to herself and attempts to brush the sunlight off the marble counter. As Dara’s hand sails along the level black with white freckles; the counter exhales frenetic dust particles like disturbing flies out of a carcass.

As Dara takes in a deep breath the world begins to slow down making everything a little more genuine. Dara exhales, like the counter, slowly and makes the dust expel from her mouth defining the motion of her breath. Dara curtained her eyes from the sun and stared back at the counter. It looked desolate, a black desert with a face austere from the harsh reality of its bare state. Dara hadn’t eaten on the marble for two days now. The last time she has gone without eating on the marble was nearly two months ago when she would prepare food at the dinner table in the room staring over the rifts of the field outside. But there is a vacancy there now, the table has been absent along with her television, earrings, microwave, and boyfriend.

The mellow strangle of the Advil felt to her as if the sunlight was choking her. Dara attempted to remove herself from the stool and felt an immense charge of force push her back onto the stool. She collapsed and watched the light cascade onto her frivolous hands that felt like they had been put on to coal. Dara retreats her hands and began scrutinizing the pattern of the beige carpet below. It was stained from wine and other mystery scars.

As she watched for the carpet to do something interesting, her vision began to blur and she struggled with the swell of her eyes to induce her to sleep. Dara would not have any of this. She stared into the kitchen adjacent to her and traced her eye to the location of the green neon lights. They flashed 11:00. Dara pondered if it was day or night and in disbelief the din of the dish washer subsided with a sigh.

Dara closed her eyes, became imbalanced in the new cacophony then opened them and felt the odd dissatisfaction of waking up. She panned the kitchen for something, but wasn’t remembering what it was. She focused her disbelief and juxtaposition on a defeated chuckle. She began to feel nauseous. Her mouth agape, she focused on the distorted vision of coffee brown and white. Her eyes began to water and she felt her heart suddenly blistered with fear and forgiveness. Dara began believing in people she had forgotten about. People who are entitled for some significant but incoherent reason. There was no coherence anymore for Dara, just instinct.

Dara heard a rattle and instantly her heart began to race. Her palms began to sweat and she looked down at her ankles to reveal her harasser. At the base of the stool sat the open container for the Advil. Dara reached down to pick it up and she placed it on the corner. She then poured the contents on the marble and she spelled out her name. Then she recites something different than what was on the black setting: “Angel.”

Dara laughs at herself and begins stares at the clock again: 11:01.

Dara began to think that she took pills filled with some kind of mechanism that incredibly slows down time like a fly trying to fly through honey. She began to suspect that the company is lodging secret sedatives to plan and manipulate time travel. Dara began to be paranoid of this thought, so she stared at the clock again: 11:15.

The government is fucking with time. What else do we have?

Dara convinced herself this and she gave up. This was the day, she says, that she surrenders and sails away with god’s divine will.

There was a disturbance in the hall incognito to her now.

Why is the government here; in my own house? How dare them. She said in offense to these intruders.

Slowly climbing out of the chair she readjusts her feet on the ground--heavily calculating their position in relevance to the focus of her weight. She feels that sudden swell of gravity push on her again, but after her first step she feels as if she is gliding. Dara looks at the small table under the absent photograph where there is a naked void where some photo once resided. Her hand leaps for the temporary occupancy.

Dessert: Wine.

As she takes a swig of the bottle, she stumbles down the hall, crutching herself with the walls, and adding more footprints of wine along the carpet. Dara drags her uncooperative body like a zombie desperate for flesh and brains. From the windows of the apartment next door, the neighbors find position on the porch and spectate this sad existence of American life.

Dara finds herself at the end of the hall and forgetting what she was so determined to find. She stares into the room furnished by an undisturbed bed and a shadow lurching down into her dresser. She suddenly becomes brave and attempts to say, “If you don’t get out of my house at this moment I will call the police and if you run I will have a warrant for your arrest. So don’t run or do anything rash, just sit there and listen to me for a while.”

What ended up coming out of her mouth was something like, “liiisten… I’ll….Ill… fuck you… the police will come and… and… fuck you… listen… to ….m …..e … I’m going to fuck…” before she passed out again on the wine stained carpet. Falling four feet from the last silhouette of her wine traced head.

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