Spill*
a short story in two parts
by Z.D. Gladstone
"Excuse me."
She had caught him just before he
ducked through the door to the kitchen. Derek turned, tray still in his hands,
and appraised the woman politely. "Yes, ma'am?" he inquired. "What
can I get you?"
"I will give you the best sex
you've ever had, right now, if you will spill something all over my date."
There was the ominous rattle of
stemware as Derek's hands fumbled under his tray. He blinked hard - twice - and
then stared at the woman standing at the end of the bar. "I'm sorry."
He cleared his throat, tried again. "I'm sorry, I think I misheard
you."
"You didn't mishear me,"
she assured him. "Something that stains."
"Derek!"
For the second time, the young
waiter nearly dropped his tray. This time he took no chances and hastily put it
down as he turned to face Peter, the bartender and part owner of the restaurant,
his "there's-a-guest-present" smile glowing. He took in both his
waiter and his guest, and folded his hands with a nod. "Derek, did you get
this young lady's drink order?"
"I'm on the wagon." Lips
that would make a priest short of breath curled into a half-mocking smile. "Derek
was telling me about the ingredients in your seafood chowder, I ordered it
without thinking, I'm allergic to paprika."
"Tarragon," Derek said
automatically, his best professional smile in his voice. "Parsley, bay,
and a bit of saffron, and of course salt and pepper."
"Do you know if it's flat-leaf
parsley or Italian parsley?" she asked, pulling her lovely face into a
charming frown.
"I'll leave you to it, Derek,
you know your stuff." Peter nodded again, smiled at the customer, and
retreated back down the bar to what he knew best.
"Sex," the lady reiterated
once the bartender was out of earshot. "Right now. The best you've ever
had."
It was a Saturday night at the Jazz
Depot, and Blue Footing Fly was on their first set. Per usual, the club was
packed with every attractive young adult old enough to drink a martini in the
whole city of Seattle. It was one of the things Derek liked about his job:
people watching as he meandered skillfully through the candle-lit tables. Especially
the women. He wasn't a pig, but he was tall and the tables were low and from
his vantage point some of those necklines left very little to the imagination. But
mostly he liked thinking about the kind of primping they had done, and made up
stories why: the blonde with all the highlights had a lot of sequins on her
dress and was cautious about her lipstick—she was self-conscious because she
didn't get out much. The lady in the red dress on her second glass of riesling
wore a lot of tinkling silver bracelets—she was out for a good time and didn't
care what anyone thought. The Latina with her low-cut dress wore a ruby pendant
that almost disappeared—she was securing her date all for herself, asserting
herself as the only woman in his life.
But this woman standing with Derek
at the end of the bar...she was fearless. She looked like she might be of mixed
Asian and European parentage, she wore her midnight hair up in a careless knot,
the kind you ached to pull free, the kind that looked good falling out, falling
down, or staying up. She had darkened her eyelids and rouged her lips, but wore
no other make-up—she didn't need to. Her skin was literally flawless, her
cheekbones perfect as they were. And her eyes...somehow they were solid black,
but brilliantly clear at the same time.
She had a figure that supermodels
probably went through surgery for, sheathed in a slinky white dress with
spaghetti straps. A necklace of white gold and blue topaz emphasized her
elegant throat. Everything about her was sin incarnate, but it was obvious she didn't
work for it; here was one of God's Chosen, one of the favored few who on their
worst day still set the standard for which everyone else strove. From her long legs
to her smooth arms to her glorious, glorious curves, there wasn't a man alive
who wouldn't want to worship her in one way or another.
"You're joking with me,
right?"
She smiled. He felt himself go weak
in the knees.
"No joke," she told him. "But
I have to get back to the table. So tell me now, will you do it or won't
you?"
"Spill something on your
date?"
"A lot of something. Something
that will stain."
"Something hot?"
She considered. "It would be a
nice touch, but don't scald him."
Derek reached up and ran his hand through
his sandy thatch of hair, mind tripping to keep up like a gerbil that got
carried away in its wheel. He was a waiter. A waiter at a high end jazz
restaurant. If he spilled something on a customer, he could get fired. Heck, if
he got caught having sex with a customer on his break, he would definitely get
fired. And besides, who made this kind of offer?! It was insane! He didn't
promote prostitution, and although he wasn't giving her money, it was still a
trade. He couldn't do that.
Could he?
She was, without a doubt, the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was pretty confident he'd never meet
one more so, however long he may live. And certainly he'd never have a chance
with her under normal circumstances. Not that he wasn't attractive; he knew he
was cute, but he was nowhere near her level. He was a nice guy, the kind that
bought a girl roses on her birthday and liked to hold hands while walking down
the street. But he wasn't rich, didn't have any strong talent, no fame, and only
completed two years of college. He had nothing that could attract her. She'd
never have a relationship with a guy like him, much less have sex with him just
for looks.
He couldn't remember instantly off
the top of his head the last time he did
have sex just for the fun of it. His last relationship, Patricia, had ended six
months ago and he wished it had been sooner. The last few times they'd made
love, it had been physical only, held no joy. He'd been unhappy over her
general long-suffering attitude when they were together, the way she pretended
she couldn't hear him at first whenever he tried to talk. As for her, who knew
what her problem had been. She finally cheated on him and he found it a relief.
She'd stayed in the relationship because it was convenient, and he supposed
he'd done the same thing--although he'd told people (including himself) that he
really hoped they could make things better.
Convenient. This woman in white
wanted this favor, and offered sex because it was convenient for her, something
with no strings, something she knew he would want. It was clear.
For a moment - just a moment - he
let his imagination stray down the delightful path of "What If?"
He imagined taking her slow against
the wall in the alley behind the kitchen, under the old awning, the sound of
the rain around them masking the sounds of their breath. He imagined her white
dress silky against his knuckles, the skin of her hips smooth under his hands. He
imagined her hair coming loose and spilling over their faces, flushed and
sweating. He imagined her neck under his lips, her shoulder under his teeth,
the smooth curve of her breast under his tongue. He imagined getting her smell
all over him...
When he came out of his reverie, he
saw her eyeing his apron with a look of smug assurance.
"Good," she said, as
though he'd just agreed. "When's your next break? You want to meet in the
coat room?"
"No," Derek said.
"Where then?"
"No, there's no bargain."
"What?"
"No trade."
"What, are you gay? No, I can
tell you're not gay. Are you married or something? No one will ever know; I
don't want people knowing."
"No, it's not that," Derek
shook his head. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. "I'll do it, just
not for sex."
It was her turn to blink. "What?"
"I said I'll do it, you don't
owe me anything."
She had already given him what he
wanted: he'd do it for free just to see the expression on her face, one she
probably rarely wore. A woman that beautiful? Who knew what people had demanded
and expected of her through her life. Derek just wanted to be generous. Truly
generous.
"Head back to your table,
they'll wonder what happened to you." He picked his tray back up with a
smile. "I'll be there with your order in just a few minutes."
She opened her mouth, almost like
she wanted to object. "Ok," she said. She was obviously perplexed. "Alright
then. Um," she added, looking at him consideringly, "thank you."
Derek smiled his most professional
smile and meandered skillfully past her into the kitchen, listened to the sound
of her high heels click on the floor in a thoughtful retreat.
* * * *
Hime was a woman who had long ago
learned not to care. Not that she didn't care about anything—just not about
most things. Most things were not worth caring about: they were fleeting, or
they faded, or were hyped-up to be much more than they were worth.
"Blue Footing Fly is a local
group, you know. People think they're out of San Francisco because that's where
they got famous, but those three guys? They met in the dorms at the University
of Washington."
For example, Hime was beautiful. She
was nearly the definition of the word, a fact she had been made fully aware of at
a young age. For all she knew, she would be beautiful every day of her life—but
she doubted it. She had seen what happened to beautiful things: they faded
unless they were preserved. Well, Hime wasn't about to go through surgeries and
consultations as the years claimed their tolls, trying to fight the inevitable.
The idea made her feel as though she would be embalmed long before death. She
knew what was coming, and accepted it without a second thought.
"I know the bass player, too,
Johnny Freds? Yeah, he actually owes me some money but I let it slide."
What she couldn't accept - what she
couldn't stand - were people who labored under the
misapprehension that this inevitable decay wouldn't happen. And
that was most people! Hime could tell by now, could see it in the way people
looked at her when they interacted, hear in in their conversation. They loved
her beauty, loved it so blindly that they never seemed to consider that it
wasn't insured, carried no guarantee.
"Well, I don't like to brag
about the people I know, you meet so many big names in my line of work. I like
to just think of them as people."
The things Hime cared about were
things she had earned. Her cat, Hershey, for example: he had been a feral,
terrified kitten when she met him. She had earned his trust slowly, cautiously,
over many long months of opening tuna cans and crouching in the reeking alley. It
took almost a year before he'd let her pet him. When he first purred for her,
she'd cried.
"Well of course we can go back
after the show and meet them, the manager owes me a favor."
Martin, the man who was somehow Hime's
fiancée without ever having asked her to marry him, hated cats.
Hime's American father had died when
she was twelve, too early to offer guidance on the plethora of horny boys who
never seemed to stop advancing on her. Her mom, her aunt, and her great-aunt
were all that remained of her family now, and like all good Japanese
matriarchs, they were eager for her to make a good match. He had to be rich,
had to have good manners, and had to be willing and ready to treat their
precious girl like the princess she was.
Those had even been Martin's words:
"I'll treat your daughter like the princess she truly is."
Hime had dated Martin because she
had nothing better to do. She didn't love him. She didn't even like him all
that much, and that decreased a little every time he opened his mouth. But he
was flashy: wealthy and smooth and very handsome. That meant he was good for
scaring off the scores of men who would otherwise harass her if she went out by
herself. And since Martin was more into himself than anything else, she could
ignore him and he wouldn't notice.
"I'll see about us sticking
around after closing, having some drinks with the band, what do you say
Princess?"
But then he'd met her mother, and
aunt, and great-aunt. He enjoyed preening himself to meet their expectations. They
believed his charming facade. They believed he was in all things a perfect
gentleman, and would never, ever embarrass them.
"Hey, it's a piece of
cake!"
What this man needs, Hime
thought, staring at his cream-colored silk shirt and fine label sports coat, is
a stain.
If she'd had cash on her, she could
have offered the waiter a few hundred, easy. "Derek" was the name
he'd given them when he took their drink orders. Seemed like an average guy,
and that meant OK, so she thought she'd barter a taste of her beauty for an
unforgettable evening. Heck, she'd do it just to see the look on Martin's face
as a big plate of something went spilling all over him.
But the waiter...Derek...he'd said
he'd do it for free. That was the last thing she'd expected.
Sitting at the dinner table, her
wilted spinach salad untouched in front of her, Hime stared at Martin. He was
speaking in very animated tones to Hime's mother and aunt and great-aunt,
completely ignoring the band. Hime wasn't listening to either. She was so deep in
thought that she jumped with genuine surprise when Derek apparently stumbled
and sent an entire tray worth of food cascading over Martin's head, shoulders,
and lap.
Martin was instantly on his feet,
shrieking in tones that put Hime's mother to shame. The waiter Derek was
gasping apologies, his face an image of chagrin. Hime slammed both hands over
her mouth, eyes as wide as half-dollars. To anyone looking at her she must have
looked the horrified. In reality, it was all mirth.
The waiter hadn't gone soft on him,
either: he seemed to have piled the tray with every staining substance that
they served. Two glasses of red wine, a cup of the tomato bisque, the lamb in
curry sauce, a plate of pasta, and a small dish of the blueberry cobbler
accompanied by a cup of espresso had all managed to become intimately
acquainted with Martin's wardrobe. Martin no longer looked GQ; he looked like
the bottom of a dumpster.
"What the fuck, you fucking
asshole?! How can anybody be that fucking clumsy?!!"
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry,
it was an acciden-"
"Fuck you! Fuck you and what
you've fucking done to my clothes, god damn it!"
"Sir, please, come back with me
and speak to the manager. We'll find you something to wear home, of course
we'll pay for the cleaning-"
"This is the most fucked-up
shit! What the fuck did you do to me!!?"
Everyone, including the band, was
staring at them, most with resentful rather than sympathetic expressions. The
manager came out and tried to help, speaking soothingly and reassuringly to
Hime's not-really-fiancée, offering apologies and compensation over and over
again. Neither Martin's anger nor his volume abated. From the looks on the
faces of the manager and the bass player, his boasts of their acquaintance had
been quite empty.
Hime didn't know why she did it, but
as the chaos continued and her mother and aunt and great-aunt adopted
increasingly mortified expressions, she reached over and took Derek's hand.
Gently, she squeezed it in gratitude. She sincerely hoped he was enjoying this
as much as she was.
Maybe I'll move, was the
thought that went through her head as Martin's face turned purple, and other
diners started shouting at him to shut up. I'll move to Portland; close
enough to be a good daughter, far enough away that mom can't interfere with
every part of my life. Without her breathing down my neck, maybe I can actually
date for once. She thought she might start giving some waiters a try, they
seemed like nice people.
"Hey buddy, there are other
people here, too!"
"We're trying to listen to the
band!"
"Sir, please come back to my
office, I promise to take good care of you-"
"Take good care of my god
damned jacket, this is fucked up!" Martin screamed for the tenth time. "Look
at all this shit, I'm a fucking mess!!"
"Martin." It was one of
the good things about being beautiful: you could command attention without
hardly trying. "Martin, go back with the manager and stop shouting
already, you're making a scene."
"I'm not making a scene!"
he shouted, a little less loudly. "That fucking waiter caused a scene when
he spilled shit all over me!"
"You are embarrassing
Mama," Hime told him icily. And it was true, her mother looked as though
she wanted to die, and so did her aunt and great-aunt.
"Fuck!" Martin screamed
and turned to storm back with the manager.
"Come on, Mama," Hime
said, gathering her things. "We'll take a taxi home."
"Let me call the cab for
you." Derek sounded genuinely apologetic. Maybe he thought he'd over-done
it. "It's the least I can do, I'll call the cab and pay him."
Hime smiled at him tight-lipped, as
though she were angry. "Thank you."
Derek ran outside. The crowd was
turning its attention back to the band, who were playing like they were
laughing. Hime pulled out the chairs for her mother her aunt and her great-aunt,
lent them an arm as they walked back to the coat check, and helped all three of
them on with their coats. Derek came back down the stairs just in time to help
Hime on with her silver-colored jacket.
"The cab is here," he
said, still in apologetic tones. "Let me help you out." And he took
great-aunt's arm like a true gentleman and walked slowly so that everyone could
keep up as he escorted them.
They helped mom and aunt and
great-aunt into the car. Then Hime turned to Derek with a cold look on her face.
"Please tell my ex-fiancée that we've gone," she said, "And
thank you." She reached out and shook his hand tersely.
When she shook his hand, she passed
him two hundred dollar bills; she'd taken them from Martin's jacket pocket at
the coat check.
*All blog content is the sole creative and intellectual property of Z.D. Gladstone, unless otherwise noted--and very open to constructive feedback!