"TITLE" - ACWclub Writing Contest #??

1 2 3	"Dessert" (the sixty-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest)	4 5
	Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Dessert" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), May 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent.

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Dessert
By Michael Pelc
michaelpelc@yahoo.com
(Entry #1)

~Winning Entry~

"I made something special for dessert," she said, her voice flowing out of the kitchen and into the dining room on an aroma that hinted of freshly-baked apple pie.

Tully loosened his belt a notch to make room. The woman could cook. In the two weeks it had been since he first met Alice, he'd gained a dozen pounds. Nearly a pound a day. If it went on like this much longer (without a tumble in the hay every now and then, even if only to burn off a few calories) he'd need a new wardrobe. Or a new woman.

He knew they should talk about it (the sex, not the food; the food was to die for as they say). He'd tried to bring it up once before, about a week ago, but Alice served him another slice of meatloaf and excused herself mid-sentence (his, not hers) to go into the kitchen and re-heat the gravy. He sensed she was embarrassed and dropped the topic. Later they had peach cobbler for dessert. (Tully wasn't aware of it yet, but Alice's dessert menu had replaced the standard Gregorian calendar as his way of keeping track of events in their developing relationship; for example, the night they stayed in to watch an old Katherine Hepburn movie on cable wasn't the night they watched Hepburn, it was the night they had chocolate layer cake).

And so it was that Alice and Tully slowly began to settle into the comfort of each other's company. One night (the night they had strawberry shortcake) Tully even told Alice that he'd once done time in prison. She said she'd guessed as much, but that it didn't matter now. He'd paid his debt to society, and the only thing she cared about was him and how they'd found each other. She didn't even want to know what he'd gone to jail for as long as it wasn't murder because she just wouldn't feel right providing food and sustenance to someone who had taken the life of another. Tully assured her he had never murdered anyone, and the topic never came up again.

"Now James," she said as she carried the pie into the dining room (Alice never called Tully by his last name the way everyone else did), "I want your honest opinion, okay?"

"Sure, Hon."

"I just want you to know that this is a brand new recipe - one I made up myself - so I'm a little scared, okay?" Alice cut a large slice of pie, set it on a plate and handed it to Tully.

"Aw Puddin, you're the best cook that ever was, I'm sure it's gonna be just fine. Besides (here Tully closed his eyes and paused in his part of the conversation to lift the plate up close to his nose and take in a deep, exaggerated breath), it smells fantastic."

"Oh, I hope so. I worked so hard on it all afternoon, trying to get everything just right."

"Brand new recipe you say. Whad'ya gonna call it?"

"I think I'll call it Alice's Apple Tully-Nutter Butter Pie."

"Alice's Apple Tully-Nutter Butter Pie, eh? Boy, that's a mouthful, isn't it?" he said with a smile (to be sure, it was a silly name for a dessert, but Tully didn't mind - all his life he had secretly wished that one day he would have a food named after him). He took a large bite.

"What's it got in it?" Tully mumbled, his mouth full, his table manners abandoned for the moment.

"Oh, it's got everything you like - apples and cinnamon and raisins and finely crushed almonds. Though I'm worried the almonds might taste a little bitter."

* * * * *

G. Harlan Blair pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. His was an imposing figure. His angular six-foot-four inch frame, attired in a tailored three-piece suit with a pearl gray tie and a matching handkerchief in the left breast pocket, moved with the easy, confident grace of a panther stalking its prey.

"It was arsenic, wasn't it?" he said, brushing an unruly lock of thick, black hair from his forehead. His rich baritone voice filled the room with palpable energy.

The plain-looking woman seated in front of him squirmed in her chair and adjusted the hem of her brown tweed dress so that it might more demurely cover her knees. She made no discernible attempt to speak.

"Your Honor," said Blair without diverting his steel blue eyes from the woman, "please instruct the witness to answer the question."

"It may have been," she said, the words finding their way out of her mouth before the judge could admonish her. Her voice was soft, weak, frightened. Like a gazelle that had been separated from its herd, the outcome of the encounter had been foreordained the moment the woman had set foot in the courtroom.

"It may have been?! Miss Winslow, either it was or it wasn't."

"Yes, all right, it was arsenic. Of course it was arsenic. What else could it have been? Didn't I make that clear?" The woman appeared strangely agitated, as though she were no longer in charge of what was happening.

"Quite, Miss Winslow, quite clear indeed. Now, this man - this James Tully as you call him - he wasn't the first person you killed, now was he?"

"No, Mr. Blair, I suppose he wasn't."

"You suppose?" Blair mocked the woman, his voice derisive in its tone. "Isn't it true, Miss Winslow, that you have, in point of fact, murdered in excess of seventy-five persons during your career?"

A wave of murmuring and whispering made its way through the spectators. The number seventy-five could be heard over and over again above the barely hushed din. Judge Matuszak was forced to gavel the room back to order.

"It might be that many," said Miss Winslow. She looked, not at Blair, but at her hands, which she kept lightly folded on her lap while she spoke. "I'm afraid I don't know an exact number. You see, I've never actually kept track."

"You've never kept track?" Blair turned away from the woman on the witness stand and placed his hands on the railing of the jury box, drawing the jurors attention to himself as he repeated the last part of her statement. It was a technique he'd learned in law school. Show the jury your own disbelief, your own incredulity, so that they may then feel free to disbelieve the witness themselves.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't know anyone who keeps track of that sort of thing," said Miss Winslow in an effort to explain her situation. "It's not exactly the point of what we do."

"Well, perhaps it should be, Miss Winslow. Unless, of course, life is so trite and meaningless as to be irrelevant."

Miss Winslow's defense counsel stood and raised an objection. Blair knew he would. It was exactly what he wanted the man to do. Get the juices flowing. Make the jurors sit up in their seats and take notice. This would be testimony they would not soon forget; these would be the words they would remember when they deliberated the guilt of the woman before them.

"Very well, then," said Blair when the objection was upheld, being careful to monitor the volume and cadence of his speech. "Let me rephrase the question. Let me, if I may, put it to you more directly."

Blair paused at this point to allow defense counsel time to resume his seat. Then suddenly - like a wild animal that has been set free from its cage only to turn upon its captor - he snapped his head around and glared at the woman on the witness stand. The jurors, to a man, followed his lead, as he knew they would. "Miss Winslow," he screamed, "did you kill James Tully?"

Fright made Carrie Winslow sit absolutely still while she thought how she might best phrase her reply. She could feel every eye in the courtroom upon her. It was difficult to think, difficult to find the right words. Finally she raised her head - just a little - though she still did not look directly at Blair.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose you could say that I did."

"In a manner of speaking, Miss Winslow? Is that what you said? In a manner of speaking?" Blair moved closer, thrusting his jaw forward. His eyes grew wild, his nostrils flared. The back of his neck turned deep red. The unruly forelock resumed its unwelcome place on his forehead, but this time he chose not to brush it aside. The man was on the verge of being out of control.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that. I didn't mean to make little of it."

"Oh really? Then what is it that you did mean, Miss Winslow? Please, if you would be so kind as to tell the court - in your own words, of course ..."

The man was relentless, never giving her time to think, to organize her thoughts. Like a bulldog, he kept attacking, his sharp fangs nipping at her heels. It was not at all the way she thought it would be. For the first time Carrie Winslow found herself thinking about the possibility of rubbing him out, of doing away with Blair completely. But first she would answer his question.

"What I meant, Mr. Blair, is that, technically speaking, I did not actually kill James Tully. You see, sir, what I did - my crime, as it were, if that's what it was - was to write a story in which I had a character named Alice kill a man named James Tully by feeding him a dessert laced with arsenic."

"Oh, you writers, you're all alike. You think you can kill at will and pass it off as 'oh, it was just a story' and not be burdened by the consequences of your actions because all they were was words. I ask you, Miss Winslow, and all the others like you, did you not think that what you were doing - what you were writing - was a crime? Did you not think of how the victim - in this case one James Tully - would writhe in pain and agony as the arsenic mercilessly destroyed his body? And his family - what of his family, Miss Winslow? What of them? What of Mr. Tully's family? Did you not think of them? Did you not think how he might have a mother somewhere? Perhaps a frail and delicate woman, who, upon learning of the death of her son - a death caused by you, I might add ..."

As he spoke, G. Harlan Blair strode back and forth in the small, confined space between the witness chair and the jury box. Sometimes he would flail his arms wildly in exaggerated animation or jab his finger accusingly into the heated air as he made one point or another. Other times he would adopt a statuesque pose, his hands grasping his lapels, his chin thrust nobly skyward as he implored the blind goddess of justice to hear and fairly weigh his supplication.

When she'd had enough of his histrionics, Carrie Winslow picked her purse up off the floor and set it on her lap. The imitation leather, reinforced by a cheap cardboard liner to keep it stiff, made a popping sound when she opened it. The noise, small as it was, caught Blair's attention. He stopped talking and took a step back. He may have sensed what was coming.

For the first time Carrie Winslow allowed herself to look Blair directly in the eyes when she spoke to him. "He wasn't real, Mr. Blair, he was a character. A character I created. Words I wrote on a paper. That's all he was. He had no life other than the life I gave him: no mother, no family - why, we don't even know what he looked like or what he was wearing when he died, now do we? For you see, Mr. Blair, James Tully was an element in a story, and that's all he ever was. He ate a piece of pie and died. When you think about it, sir, he's not at all unlike you, now is he?"

Blair looked around the courtroom, desperately seeking someone to whom he might plead his case. But there was no one who Carrie Winslow was willing to let listen to him any more. After carefully examining her fingernails to see if she needed to make an appointment for a manicure, she took a pencil out of her purse and began to erase entire sections of the manuscript. She had no use for a character like G. Harlan Blair. Carrie Winslow liked killing at will. It made writing fiction so much more exciting than her day job working as a dessert chef at Chez Henri. Well, as long as she never accidentally erased herself, that is.

Home

Dessert
By lee10@host365.com
(Entry #2)

~Runner Up~

The Black Forest trifle sat on one side. The chocolate Swiss-roll had absorbed all the blackcurrant jelly and formed a firm layer for the custard, which I’d coloured cerise with a drop of red food dye. Luscious, fat, black cherries peeped through the side of the glass bowl. The dessert just needed the addition of the cream, the remaining, halved black cherries and the crumbled Cadbury’s flake. It would be my pièce de résistance; my grand finale to what I prayed would be a successful meal.

Everything else was ready. The thin layer of fat on the roast beef was bubbling nicely and the Yorkshire puddings had risen to within a millimetre of the top of the oven. The baked potatoes were golden and the parsnips were melting in their pan. I’d just tested them with a sharp knife. They were soft. Perfect. The peas were green and sweet. The gravy was simmering gently to itself and the cauliflower was done to perfection and needed only thirty seconds more in the hot water…

…and the damned cream wouldn’t whip!

The mixer paddles whirred frantically to no effect. The double cream should have been butter-like at this point; ready to spoon over the top of the set custard, but it was being unco-operative.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Sue, my mother-in-law entered the kitchen with a half-empty sherry glass. It was the first meal I’d ever made for her. It had to be right. Damn, I thought and beckoned her over.

“The cream won’t stiffen,” I grumbled.

“It’ll be because of the storm,” she said calmly. “It’s something to do with air pressure.”

We both looked out the window at the angry, grey clouds gathering overhead.

“That’s just an old wives’ tale.” I replied somewhat snappily.

“Really?” she asked. I itched to wipe the supercilious smile from her face but I had to attend to the cauliflower. Sue took the mixer and tackled the cream.

The peas were on the point of boiling dry and my heel skidded on a drop of fat I’d spilt on the kitchen floor. I caught at the towel rail to steady myself and one end came away from the wall. Dammit, I thought, why wasn’t Ken here when I needed him. He was much better in the kitchen than I was. It would be his fault if this meal were a disaster.

“Let’s have Mum and Dad over for dinner on Sunday, seeing as it’s Mother’s Day,” he’d said.

So we did. And as soon as the in-laws had arrived, he’d poured his Mum a sherry, put a glass of red wine on the kitchen windowsill for me and taken his Dad, Stan, down the pub.

“We’ll just get out of the way of you ladies,” Stan said as he put his cap back on. “We know you don’t like it when we’re underfoot.” And like father, like son, they’d disappeared leaving me with my mother-in-law of six months.

It wasn’t that we didn’t get on, so much as we didn’t know each other very well, and I still had a guilty feeling that we should not have had our wedding in Paris without inviting any family. She’d never given me any indication that she was put out because of it but, as I’d thought after the fact, in her shoes, I’d have been very upset.

Apart from Ken, Sue and I had nothing in common. I didn’t watch soaps on the TV. They were her daily diet, apparently. I hated gardening which was her other passion. Ken didn’t like gardening either but he was excused by that well-used phrase, “Well, he has been to work all day.”

What about me, I often felt like screaming. I’m a teacher. I’ve been to hell and back all day. But I didn’t think that would count so I kept my mouth shut.

I could feel Sue’s eyes boring into my back but I kept my cool and added more water to the peas, then drained the cauliflower, tipped it into a serving dish and put it in the oven’s warming drawer. I wiped up the spilt fat.

I turned to see how Sue was getting on. The mixer was still whirring and the cream was still runny. She didn’t say a word, just appeared to be concentrating on what she was doing. That was one of her faults. She was so damned quiet. How could you have a good heart-to-heart with someone who was so self-contained? And the men were five minutes late and I’d wound myself up to the point where the dinner could burn for all I cared. I’d not touched the wine so far but now seemed a good time, so I knocked it back in one go. The shock of the cheap, red plonk made me gag and pull a face. I’d bought the stuff but it was still Ken’ s fault!

Still shuddering, I opened the oven door and pulled out the meat. It smelt delicious. My mouth began to water and my mood started to improve. Then the cat appeared and wound itself round and round my legs, purring loudly and insistently. I was struggling to transfer the meat from the roasting tin to the steel carving plate and I was a bit wobbly from the wine. I swear I didn’t mean it any harm but as I went to push the cat away with my foot, the other heel skidded on a drop of fat I’d missed and I kicked the poor thing in the ribs. Hard! It squealed like a tormented creature from hell, turned and snatched at my bare leg with a savage set of claws, got caught up in the towels that had slid to the floor when the rail broke, scrabbled for a hold on the tiles, then fled up and over my shoulder and out the kitchen window, dragging a tea towel with it. I screeched in pain, thrashed wildly at the fleeing cat, knocked the meat pan over and spilt fat onto the gas flame under the peas. As though orchestrated by a malevolent god, the tea towel, no longer caught on the cat’s claws, fluttered onto the hungry flame.

“Fire!” I screamed. “Run!” I shrieked and grabbed at Sue to turn her towards the door. But she’d already gone, beaten me by a good head start.

Fortunately, the men arrived home from the pub just as we burst through the front door and after he’d hugged us and made sure we were all right, Ken phoned 999. He went and stood in the middle of the road to flag the fire engine down when it arrived but I think they’d have found our house anyway. It was the only one in the street that was disappearing under a thick smog of black smoke. Our garden was a long one and Stan guided Sue to the garden wall next to the pavement where I joined her. I was startled to see that she was holding the bowl of cream.

“It had just started to turn,” she explained. “It would have been a waste to leave it behind.”

When you are in shock, you can say some daft things, can’t you? And I replied in the same vein.

“Ken doesn’t even like trifle so I don’t know why I was making it.”

Sue smiled at me in that quiet way of hers but said nothing further.

The fire brigade arrived and once the firemen had ascertained there was no one in the house, they set about trying to put out the flames. A spaghetti of fire hoses soon crisscrossed the front lawn. There was water everywhere, except from the storm overhead which refused to break.

“The lawn needed a good soaking,” Sue commented. “It was looking a bit parched.”

I thought she was still in shock so I tried to keep the conversation going.

“You know about these things,” I said. “I’m an ignoramus when it comes to gardening. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two?”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Sue grinned at me. “I may spend a lot of time out of doors, but it’s only to escape the football on the television. When you have four sons who take after their father and are all sport mad, there are few places to escape. My garden shed is one of them. It’s peaceful out there, even when it’s raining. I’ll never get used to the slugs and snails I have to share it with, though.”

She turned to gaze at the fire and murmured.

“All manner of things shall be well, when the tongues of flame are in-folded into the crowned knot of fire and the fire and the rose are one.”

“T.S.Eliot!” I gasped, surprised.

“Yes,” Sue said. “I have quite a nice collection of books in my garden shed.” Then she added, “and quite a nice selection of sherries too. You’ ll have to come and sample both one of these days.”

The wall was hard. I wriggled uncomfortably and watched one of the firemen training his hose on the bedroom window. He staggered under the force of the water. His navy-blue and yellow waterproofs glistened. He was trampling all over the flower borders. It didn’t matter. They were full of weeds and pretty, blue forget-me-nots that are as good as weeds.

Grey smoke was billowing from the bedroom window, which I’d meant to close before the storm broke.

“I never did like that wallpaper.” I commented. “What on earth possessed Ken to pick brown?”

“Well, he is colour blind, you know.”

I stared at Sue. “I didn’t know that!”

“Yes.” She said. “Plus, he has an appalling lack of taste, just like his father. You know, I never liked this house. Even when you moved in with Ken and started to put your mark on things, whatever you tried never seemed to work. It was an impossible task but you kept trying. I admired you for that.”

“But you didn’t say anything,” I protested.

“How could I? I’m your mother-in-law! I couldn’t interfere.”

She shivered. “It’s getting cold.”

The fire was being brought under control and things were not as hot around here as they had been. I otched closer and put my arm around her. She didn’t move away but leaned into me.

Sue dipped her finger into the cream. “I was looking forward to the trifle.” She sighed. “Maybe you can make one another day?”

“But Ken doesn’t like trifle.”

“No, but I do. None of the boys really like it and Stan hates it. He never eats custard by the way. It makes him heave. But I love it so they all play along, except Stan of course. They eat a small bit and I finish the rest.”

“Then trifle is back on the menu,” I smiled. “When I can get back into the kitchen, anyway.”

“It’ll be a mess for quite a while.”

“Mm. I suspect the house may need a total rebuild.” And we beamed at each other.

“In the meantime, you’d best stay with us,” Mother-in-law offered. “Ken’s room is still empty.”

I nodded my acceptance and watched the firemen tidy away their equipment. One of them was talking to Ken, who shrugged and gestured towards me. Soon, I knew, I’d have some explaining to do.

Sue saw what was happening too. She put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re in this together.”

Looking back, I can see that the woman whom I’d caste in the role of Dragon Lady, was nothing of the sort. She was just treading carefully around a new, somewhat overly sensitive daughter-in-law. Thanks to me and the way I'd stereotyped her, we’d lost six months when we could have been getting to know each other. We’d never talked before. Not properly talked that is, beyond the day-to-day inconsequentialities. And it had all been my fault.

Sue sucked her finger and offered me the bowl. I dipped in my finger and started to lick the dollop of cream. It was sweet and sticky.

The fireman was still talking to Ken, so Sue continued the conversation. “And don’t worry. There’s a TV in Ken’s bedroom so you won’t have to watch the soaps with me.”

I grinned. I was warming to her rapidly. “No, I’m afraid I don’t like soaps that much.” I said ruefully.

“Me neither,” Sue laughed at my surprise. “But they are marginally better than football and I can’t spend all evening as well as all day in my shed, can I?”

She dipped a finger into the cream again. I followed suit. “It would have been much better with the black cherries and the chocolate,” I mused, sucking my finger.

“Never mind,” Sue said. “At least the beef was well done.”

The fireman who’d been questioning Ken approached but hesitated when he saw two giggling women sitting on a garden wall, as the long expected rain started to fall in great, swollen drops.

“The cream!” We both shrieked. “The rain’ll ruin the cream! Eat it, quick!”

And the friendship that had formed by the end of the day of the fire was sweet, delicious and fulfilling. Rather like a great dessert.

The WCA's
The Writers' Choice Awards

Here's how the members of the ACWclub voted for their favorite entries:

First place:
#1

Second place (tie):
#2, #4

Fourth place:
#5

Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.

Dessert Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com	#1 of 5 Winner
2026 words
"I made something special for dessert," she said, her voice flowing out of the kitchen and into the dining room on an aroma that hinted of freshly-baked apple pie. Tully loosened his belt a notch to make room. The woman could cook. In the two weeks it had been since he first met Alice, he'd gained a dozen pounds. Nearly a pound a day. If it went on like this much longer (without a tumble in the hay every now and then, even if only to burn off a few calories) he'd need a new wardrobe. Or a new woman. He knew they should talk about it (the sex, not the food; the food was to die for as they say). He'd tried to bring it up once before, about a week ago, but Alice served him another slice of meatloaf and excused herself mid-sentence (his, not hers) to go into the kitchen and re-heat the gravy. He sensed she was embarrassed and dropped the topic. Later they had peach cobbler for dessert. (Tully wasn't aware of it yet, but Alice's dessert menu had replaced the standard Gregorian calendar as his way of keeping track of events in their developing relationship; for example, the night they stayed in to watch an old Katherine Hepburn movie on cable wasn't the night they watched Hepburn, it was the night they had chocolate layer cake). And so it was that Alice and Tully slowly began to settle into the comfort of each other's company. One night (the night they had strawberry shortcake) Tully even told Alice that he'd once done time in prison. She said she'd guessed as much, but that it didn't matter now. He'd paid his debt to society, and the only thing she cared about was him and how they'd found each other. She didn't even want to know what he'd gone to jail for as long as it wasn't murder because she just wouldn't feel right providing food and sustenance to someone who had taken the life of another. Tully assured her he had never murdered anyone, and the topic never came up again. "Now James," she said as she carried the pie into the dining room (Alice never called Tully by his last name the way everyone else did), "I want your honest opinion, okay?" "Sure, Hon." "I just want you to know that this is a brand new recipe - one I made up myself - so I'm a little scared, okay?" Alice cut a large slice of pie, set it on a plate and handed it to Tully. "Aw Puddin, you're the best cook that ever was, I'm sure it's gonna be just fine. Besides (here Tully closed his eyes and paused in his part of the conversation to lift the plate up close to his nose and take in a deep, exaggerated breath), it smells fantastic." "Oh, I hope so. I worked so hard on it all afternoon, trying to get everything just right." "Brand new recipe you say. Whad'ya gonna call it?" "I think I'll call it Alice's Apple Tully-Nutter Butter Pie." "Alice's Apple Tully-Nutter Butter Pie, eh? Boy, that's a mouthful, isn't it?" he said with a smile (to be sure, it was a silly name for a dessert, but Tully didn't mind - all his life he had secretly wished that one day he would have a food named after him). He took a large bite. "What's it got in it?" Tully mumbled, his mouth full, his table manners abandoned for the moment. "Oh, it's got everything you like - apples and cinnamon and raisins and finely crushed almonds. Though I'm worried the almonds might taste a little bitter." * * * * * G. Harlan Blair pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. His was an imposing figure. His angular six-foot-four inch frame, attired in a tailored three-piece suit with a pearl gray tie and a matching handkerchief in the left breast pocket, moved with the easy, confident grace of a panther stalking its prey. "It was arsenic, wasn't it?" he said, brushing an unruly lock of thick, black hair from his forehead. His rich baritone voice filled the room with palpable energy. The plain-looking woman seated in front of him squirmed in her chair and adjusted the hem of her brown tweed dress so that it might more demurely cover her knees. She made no discernible attempt to speak. "Your Honor," said Blair without diverting his steel blue eyes from the woman, "please instruct the witness to answer the question." "It may have been," she said, the words finding their way out of her mouth before the judge could admonish her. Her voice was soft, weak, frightened. Like a gazelle that had been separated from its herd, the outcome of the encounter had been foreordained the moment the woman had set foot in the courtroom. "It may have been?! Miss Winslow, either it was or it wasn't." "Yes, all right, it was arsenic. Of course it was arsenic. What else could it have been? Didn't I make that clear?" The woman appeared strangely agitated, as though she were no longer in charge of what was happening. "Quite, Miss Winslow, quite clear indeed. Now, this man - this James Tully as you call him - he wasn't the first person you killed, now was he?" "No, Mr. Blair, I suppose he wasn't." "You suppose?" Blair mocked the woman, his voice derisive in its tone. "Isn't it true, Miss Winslow, that you have, in point of fact, murdered in excess of seventy-five persons during your career?" A wave of murmuring and whispering made its way through the spectators. The number seventy-five could be heard over and over again above the barely hushed din. Judge Matuszak was forced to gavel the room back to order. "It might be that many," said Miss Winslow. She looked, not at Blair, but at her hands, which she kept lightly folded on her lap while she spoke. "I'm afraid I don't know an exact number. You see, I've never actually kept track." "You've never kept track?" Blair turned away from the woman on the witness stand and placed his hands on the railing of the jury box, drawing the jurors attention to himself as he repeated the last part of her statement. It was a technique he'd learned in law school. Show the jury your own disbelief, your own incredulity, so that they may then feel free to disbelieve the witness themselves. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't know anyone who keeps track of that sort of thing," said Miss Winslow in an effort to explain her situation. "It's not exactly the point of what we do." "Well, perhaps it should be, Miss Winslow. Unless, of course, life is so trite and meaningless as to be irrelevant." Miss Winslow's defense counsel stood and raised an objection. Blair knew he would. It was exactly what he wanted the man to do. Get the juices flowing. Make the jurors sit up in their seats and take notice. This would be testimony they would not soon forget; these would be the words they would remember when they deliberated the guilt of the woman before them. "Very well, then," said Blair when the objection was upheld, being careful to monitor the volume and cadence of his speech. "Let me rephrase the question. Let me, if I may, put it to you more directly." Blair paused at this point to allow defense counsel time to resume his seat. Then suddenly - like a wild animal that has been set free from its cage only to turn upon its captor - he snapped his head around and glared at the woman on the witness stand. The jurors, to a man, followed his lead, as he knew they would. "Miss Winslow," he screamed, "did you kill James Tully?" Fright made Carrie Winslow sit absolutely still while she thought how she might best phrase her reply. She could feel every eye in the courtroom upon her. It was difficult to think, difficult to find the right words. Finally she raised her head - just a little - though she still did not look directly at Blair. "In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose you could say that I did." "In a manner of speaking, Miss Winslow? Is that what you said? In a manner of speaking?" Blair moved closer, thrusting his jaw forward. His eyes grew wild, his nostrils flared. The back of his neck turned deep red. The unruly forelock resumed its unwelcome place on his forehead, but this time he chose not to brush it aside. The man was on the verge of being out of control. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that. I didn't mean to make little of it." "Oh really? Then what is it that you did mean, Miss Winslow? Please, if you would be so kind as to tell the court - in your own words, of course ..." The man was relentless, never giving her time to think, to organize her thoughts. Like a bulldog, he kept attacking, his sharp fangs nipping at her heels. It was not at all the way she thought it would be. For the first time Carrie Winslow found herself thinking about the possibility of rubbing him out, of doing away with Blair completely. But first she would answer his question. "What I meant, Mr. Blair, is that, technically speaking, I did not actually kill James Tully. You see, sir, what I did - my crime, as it were, if that's what it was - was to write a story in which I had a character named Alice kill a man named James Tully by feeding him a dessert laced with arsenic." "Oh, you writers, you're all alike. You think you can kill at will and pass it off as 'oh, it was just a story' and not be burdened by the consequences of your actions because all they were was words. I ask you, Miss Winslow, and all the others like you, did you not think that what you were doing - what you were writing - was a crime? Did you not think of how the victim - in this case one James Tully - would writhe in pain and agony as the arsenic mercilessly destroyed his body? And his family - what of his family, Miss Winslow? What of them? What of Mr. Tully's family? Did you not think of them? Did you not think how he might have a mother somewhere? Perhaps a frail and delicate woman, who, upon learning of the death of her son - a death caused by you, I might add ..." As he spoke, G. Harlan Blair strode back and forth in the small, confined space between the witness chair and the jury box. Sometimes he would flail his arms wildly in exaggerated animation or jab his finger accusingly into the heated air as he made one point or another. Other times he would adopt a statuesque pose, his hands grasping his lapels, his chin thrust nobly skyward as he implored the blind goddess of justice to hear and fairly weigh his supplication. When she'd had enough of his histrionics, Carrie Winslow picked her purse up off the floor and set it on her lap. The imitation leather, reinforced by a cheap cardboard liner to keep it stiff, made a popping sound when she opened it. The noise, small as it was, caught Blair's attention. He stopped talking and took a step back. He may have sensed what was coming. For the first time Carrie Winslow allowed herself to look Blair directly in the eyes when she spoke to him. "He wasn't real, Mr. Blair, he was a character. A character I created. Words I wrote on a paper. That's all he was. He had no life other than the life I gave him: no mother, no family - why, we don't even know what he looked like or what he was wearing when he died, now do we? For you see, Mr. Blair, James Tully was an element in a story, and that's all he ever was. He ate a piece of pie and died. When you think about it, sir, he's not at all unlike you, now is he?" Blair looked around the courtroom, desperately seeking someone to whom he might plead his case. But there was no one who Carrie Winslow was willing to let listen to him any more. After carefully examining her fingernails to see if she needed to make an appointment for a manicure, she took a pencil out of her purse and began to erase entire sections of the manuscript. She had no use for a character like G. Harlan Blair. Carrie Winslow liked killing at will. It made writing fiction so much more exciting than her day job working as a dessert chef at Chez Henri. Well, as long as she never accidentally erased herself, that is.

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Dessert lee10@host365.com	#2 of 5 Runner-up
2005 words
The Black Forest trifle sat on one side. The chocolate Swiss-roll had absorbed all the blackcurrant jelly and formed a firm layer for the custard, which I’d coloured cerise with a drop of red food dye. Luscious, fat, black cherries peeped through the side of the glass bowl. The dessert just needed the addition of the cream, the remaining, halved black cherries and the crumbled Cadbury’s flake. It would be my pièce de résistance; my grand finale to what I prayed would be a successful meal. Everything else was ready. The thin layer of fat on the roast beef was bubbling nicely and the Yorkshire puddings had risen to within a millimetre of the top of the oven. The baked potatoes were golden and the parsnips were melting in their pan. I’d just tested them with a sharp knife. They were soft. Perfect. The peas were green and sweet. The gravy was simmering gently to itself and the cauliflower was done to perfection and needed only thirty seconds more in the hot water… …and the damned cream wouldn’t whip! The mixer paddles whirred frantically to no effect. The double cream should have been butter-like at this point; ready to spoon over the top of the set custard, but it was being unco-operative. “Is there anything I can do?” Sue, my mother-in-law entered the kitchen with a half-empty sherry glass. It was the first meal I’d ever made for her. It had to be right. Damn, I thought and beckoned her over. “The cream won’t stiffen,” I grumbled. “It’ll be because of the storm,” she said calmly. “It’s something to do with air pressure.” We both looked out the window at the angry, grey clouds gathering overhead. “That’s just an old wives’ tale.” I replied somewhat snappily. “Really?” she asked. I itched to wipe the supercilious smile from her face but I had to attend to the cauliflower. Sue took the mixer and tackled the cream. The peas were on the point of boiling dry and my heel skidded on a drop of fat I’d spilt on the kitchen floor. I caught at the towel rail to steady myself and one end came away from the wall. Dammit, I thought, why wasn’t Ken here when I needed him. He was much better in the kitchen than I was. It would be his fault if this meal were a disaster. “Let’s have Mum and Dad over for dinner on Sunday, seeing as it’s Mother’s Day,” he’d said. So we did. And as soon as the in-laws had arrived, he’d poured his Mum a sherry, put a glass of red wine on the kitchen windowsill for me and taken his Dad, Stan, down the pub. “We’ll just get out of the way of you ladies,” Stan said as he put his cap back on. “We know you don’t like it when we’re underfoot.” And like father, like son, they’d disappeared leaving me with my mother-in-law of six months. It wasn’t that we didn’t get on, so much as we didn’t know each other very well, and I still had a guilty feeling that we should not have had our wedding in Paris without inviting any family. She’d never given me any indication that she was put out because of it but, as I’d thought after the fact, in her shoes, I’d have been very upset. Apart from Ken, Sue and I had nothing in common. I didn’t watch soaps on the TV. They were her daily diet, apparently. I hated gardening which was her other passion. Ken didn’t like gardening either but he was excused by that well-used phrase, “Well, he has been to work all day.” What about me, I often felt like screaming. I’m a teacher. I’ve been to hell and back all day. But I didn’t think that would count so I kept my mouth shut. I could feel Sue’s eyes boring into my back but I kept my cool and added more water to the peas, then drained the cauliflower, tipped it into a serving dish and put it in the oven’s warming drawer. I wiped up the spilt fat. I turned to see how Sue was getting on. The mixer was still whirring and the cream was still runny. She didn’t say a word, just appeared to be concentrating on what she was doing. That was one of her faults. She was so damned quiet. How could you have a good heart-to-heart with someone who was so self-contained? And the men were five minutes late and I’d wound myself up to the point where the dinner could burn for all I cared. I’d not touched the wine so far but now seemed a good time, so I knocked it back in one go. The shock of the cheap, red plonk made me gag and pull a face. I’d bought the stuff but it was still Ken’ s fault! Still shuddering, I opened the oven door and pulled out the meat. It smelt delicious. My mouth began to water and my mood started to improve. Then the cat appeared and wound itself round and round my legs, purring loudly and insistently. I was struggling to transfer the meat from the roasting tin to the steel carving plate and I was a bit wobbly from the wine. I swear I didn’t mean it any harm but as I went to push the cat away with my foot, the other heel skidded on a drop of fat I’d missed and I kicked the poor thing in the ribs. Hard! It squealed like a tormented creature from hell, turned and snatched at my bare leg with a savage set of claws, got caught up in the towels that had slid to the floor when the rail broke, scrabbled for a hold on the tiles, then fled up and over my shoulder and out the kitchen window, dragging a tea towel with it. I screeched in pain, thrashed wildly at the fleeing cat, knocked the meat pan over and spilt fat onto the gas flame under the peas. As though orchestrated by a malevolent god, the tea towel, no longer caught on the cat’s claws, fluttered onto the hungry flame. “Fire!” I screamed. “Run!” I shrieked and grabbed at Sue to turn her towards the door. But she’d already gone, beaten me by a good head start. Fortunately, the men arrived home from the pub just as we burst through the front door and after he’d hugged us and made sure we were all right, Ken phoned 999. He went and stood in the middle of the road to flag the fire engine down when it arrived but I think they’d have found our house anyway. It was the only one in the street that was disappearing under a thick smog of black smoke. Our garden was a long one and Stan guided Sue to the garden wall next to the pavement where I joined her. I was startled to see that she was holding the bowl of cream. “It had just started to turn,” she explained. “It would have been a waste to leave it behind.” When you are in shock, you can say some daft things, can’t you? And I replied in the same vein. “Ken doesn’t even like trifle so I don’t know why I was making it.” Sue smiled at me in that quiet way of hers but said nothing further. The fire brigade arrived and once the firemen had ascertained there was no one in the house, they set about trying to put out the flames. A spaghetti of fire hoses soon crisscrossed the front lawn. There was water everywhere, except from the storm overhead which refused to break. “The lawn needed a good soaking,” Sue commented. “It was looking a bit parched.” I thought she was still in shock so I tried to keep the conversation going. “You know about these things,” I said. “I’m an ignoramus when it comes to gardening. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two?” “Oh, I doubt it.” Sue grinned at me. “I may spend a lot of time out of doors, but it’s only to escape the football on the television. When you have four sons who take after their father and are all sport mad, there are few places to escape. My garden shed is one of them. It’s peaceful out there, even when it’s raining. I’ll never get used to the slugs and snails I have to share it with, though.” She turned to gaze at the fire and murmured. “All manner of things shall be well, when the tongues of flame are in-folded into the crowned knot of fire and the fire and the rose are one.” “T.S.Eliot!” I gasped, surprised. “Yes,” Sue said. “I have quite a nice collection of books in my garden shed.” Then she added, “and quite a nice selection of sherries too. You’ ll have to come and sample both one of these days.” The wall was hard. I wriggled uncomfortably and watched one of the firemen training his hose on the bedroom window. He staggered under the force of the water. His navy-blue and yellow waterproofs glistened. He was trampling all over the flower borders. It didn’t matter. They were full of weeds and pretty, blue forget-me-nots that are as good as weeds. Grey smoke was billowing from the bedroom window, which I’d meant to close before the storm broke. “I never did like that wallpaper.” I commented. “What on earth possessed Ken to pick brown?” “Well, he is colour blind, you know.” I stared at Sue. “I didn’t know that!” “Yes.” She said. “Plus, he has an appalling lack of taste, just like his father. You know, I never liked this house. Even when you moved in with Ken and started to put your mark on things, whatever you tried never seemed to work. It was an impossible task but you kept trying. I admired you for that.” “But you didn’t say anything,” I protested. “How could I? I’m your mother-in-law! I couldn’t interfere.” She shivered. “It’s getting cold.” The fire was being brought under control and things were not as hot around here as they had been. I otched closer and put my arm around her. She didn’t move away but leaned into me. Sue dipped her finger into the cream. “I was looking forward to the trifle.” She sighed. “Maybe you can make one another day?” “But Ken doesn’t like trifle.” “No, but I do. None of the boys really like it and Stan hates it. He never eats custard by the way. It makes him heave. But I love it so they all play along, except Stan of course. They eat a small bit and I finish the rest.” “Then trifle is back on the menu,” I smiled. “When I can get back into the kitchen, anyway.” “It’ll be a mess for quite a while.” “Mm. I suspect the house may need a total rebuild.” And we beamed at each other. “In the meantime, you’d best stay with us,” Mother-in-law offered. “Ken’s room is still empty.” I nodded my acceptance and watched the firemen tidy away their equipment. One of them was talking to Ken, who shrugged and gestured towards me. Soon, I knew, I’d have some explaining to do. Sue saw what was happening too. She put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re in this together.” Looking back, I can see that the woman whom I’d caste in the role of Dragon Lady, was nothing of the sort. She was just treading carefully around a new, somewhat overly sensitive daughter-in-law. Thanks to me and the way I'd stereotyped her, we’d lost six months when we could have been getting to know each other. We’d never talked before. Not properly talked that is, beyond the day-to-day inconsequentialities. And it had all been my fault. Sue sucked her finger and offered me the bowl. I dipped in my finger and started to lick the dollop of cream. It was sweet and sticky. The fireman was still talking to Ken, so Sue continued the conversation. “And don’t worry. There’s a TV in Ken’s bedroom so you won’t have to watch the soaps with me.” I grinned. I was warming to her rapidly. “No, I’m afraid I don’t like soaps that much.” I said ruefully. “Me neither,” Sue laughed at my surprise. “But they are marginally better than football and I can’t spend all evening as well as all day in my shed, can I?” She dipped a finger into the cream again. I followed suit. “It would have been much better with the black cherries and the chocolate,” I mused, sucking my finger. “Never mind,” Sue said. “At least the beef was well done.” The fireman who’d been questioning Ken approached but hesitated when he saw two giggling women sitting on a garden wall, as the long expected rain started to fall in great, swollen drops. “The cream!” We both shrieked. “The rain’ll ruin the cream! Eat it, quick!” And the friendship that had formed by the end of the day of the fire was sweet, delicious and fulfilling. Rather like a great dessert.

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Dessert RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com	#3 of 5
1520 words
Actually, that restaurant had already stood there for quite some time. Before that, Alia had only passed it by. Since it was her free Saturday afternoon, the wavy-haired girl went in there. Alia chose a table by the window and quickly grabbed a menu on it. Her eyes strayed on the list of 'desserts'. There was a 'chocolate sundae' and the picture seemed inviting. She sighed... --- // --- Back in college, there had been someone crazy about chocolate sundae. That day, Alia had been sulking because of a difficult pop quiz in class. She'd decided to sit by the campus' park all alone. Alia sat in one of the cemented benches and sighed. She hadn't been in the mood to meet other people, even her own friends. But suddenly, another creature's voice was heard there. "You look like you might need a shot of endorphin." Alia was stunned. She looked up to find a towering giant standing right in front of her. That guy was seriously big. For a second, his feature had reminded Alia of a Japanese sumo wrestler. His eyes were narrowed by his chubby cheeks. But he'd had a friendly, rather shy smile. "Sorry, I used to fall asleep during biology in high school," Alia joked, smiling back at him. She curiously eyed a white plastic bag labeled a famous fast-food restaurant in his hand. "So I forget what it is." The big guy laughed. His laughter had sounded light and warm, like a long-lost friend. Suddenly Alia didn't feel like sulking anymore. "Then I'll give you my favorite endorphin," he said softly, handing her the bag. "I hope it'll help you more." "Thanks." When Alia opened it, there was a plastic cup of chocolate sundae that had already started to melt. She gazed at him doubtfully. "Are you sure?" "I don't mind if it can make you smile again," he said with a shrug. He'd looked pleased when Alia giggled. "Too bad there's only one spoon here." "Why?" He'd looked confused. "I don't want to eat this all by myself." Alia shifted a little and gently patted at the bench. At least he wouldn't have tipped it over when they'd say together. "Does it still fit?" Alia hadn't been sure if he'd have only been kidding or serious. She was afraid of mentioning a rather sensitive topic. "Because my poor neck's starting to feel stiff if we keep talking like this." It was his turn to laugh. When they'd finally sat together, Alia didn't mind sharing the same spoon with him. It turned out that the guy's name was Andy. "Look, don't worry about that stupid pop quiz," Andy cheered her up. "If we all flunk, I'm sure there'll be a make-up." Alia was startled. "How do you know?" "You never look at the back rows of seats, do you?" Andy grinned. "We're in the same class." "Oh." Now Alia's face turned red. She was very embarrassed. --- // --- Since that beautiful and unique late afternoon, the two had started getting along well. Alia had enjoyed hanging out with Andy. He was smart, friendly, and funny. With him, Alia had never felt bored. They'd discussed many things, worked on college assignments, studied together, gone to book fairs, watched movies, and had meals. Alia had seen just how much Andy could've always eaten. Although she'd worried about his health, Alia had tried to understand his eating habit. Sometimes, he'd even ordered ice-cream for dessert --- especially chocolate sundae. Alia could've only done that once in a while. Then rumors began to spread around the campus. Somebody had snickered, calling them "Beauty and The Beast" or Shrek and Princess Fiona (of course, before she turned fat, green, and ugly like Shrek.) Even though Andy had taken it lightly, Alia was the one very upset. "Why is everybody being mean with Andy?" she protested at her two best friends Lendra and Inez. "He's a good guy." "You know, they're just being nosy and nonsensical," Lendra had commented lightly with a shrug. "Leave it, Al. Just ignore them. They must be only a bunch of insecure people. I'm sure it'll stop once they get bored." "Right," Inez agreed. Then she stared at Alia. "By the way, are you really dating Andy?" Alia blushed. But she'd also been wondering in confusion. So far, Andy had never brought that subject up before. "Uh, no. We're just friends." --- // --- Then Alex changed everything. The tall, athletic, and handsome Alex who looked like actor Fahri Albar. He'd been making a move to get Alia's attention for the past few months. He'd often asked and finally taken her out. He'd called her and seemed to love spending more times talking to her lately. Many girls had envied Alia like crazy. Alia had been confused. She'd considered herself just an ordinary girl. Alex had been cool. Okay, he was drop-dead gorgeous, actually. (And Alia hadn't wanted to be a hypocrite if she wouldn't have admitted that obvious fact herself.) But, when Alex finally asked her to go steady with him, Alia had been rather doubtful. "Just accept him, Al," Lendra had supported. "He's already close to perfection, don't you think so?" "It's an honor to be a popular guy's girlfriend," Inez had added excitedly. "Trust me, girl. You won't regret it." That night, she'd decided to ask for Andy's opinion. The two of them had sat on the front porch of her house. "Just listen to your heart," he'd said softly. "If you really like Alex too, then go for it." Alia smiled. She couldn't tell how Andy had always managed to calm her nerves. "Thanks, Andy." Suddenly, she decided to hug that big guy --- really tight. "You're my greatest friend." "I just want you to always be happy." He'd hugged her back. Alia felt the comforting warmth. She smiled again, this time with her eyes closed... If only Alia had seen that unusual glint in Andy's eyes... --- // --- Finally, Alia had become Alex's girlfriend. The couple had also stolen the center of attention from the whole campus. Meanwhile, Andy had backed off completely. Wasn't a best friend supposed to be supportive and understanding? At first, things had turned out fine. Alia had enjoyed Alex's attention on her and being his girlfriend. He'd often taken her to fancy places and treated her royally. But gradually, Alia couldn't stand his true ugliness anymore. Okay, so Alex might've always proudly introduced her to everyone as his beloved girlfriend. But Alia had felt more like a trophy or a precious property being shown off. The painful truth? Alex loved talking about himself even more. They could no longer make a good, suitable conversation. Whenever they hung out with Alex's crowd of friends, Alex always listened to them more. It wasn't wrong, actually. But Alia had felt lonelier than ever --- even in the crowd. The more aggravating part was that Alex had started to limit Alia's eating portion, fearing that she might've possibly gained more weight. Alia had missed chocolate sundae. She'd missed Andy too. It had been a long time since the last time they'd really talked. He'd never returned her calls nor even replied her messages. When they passed each other in the campus hall or any other public place, Andy had seemed wanting to avoid her. Had he been angry, somehow? Finally, Alia told Alex that she'd wanted to call it quits. The selfish guy had been dead furious that night. "Perhaps you'd rather eat like a hog and date Andy instead!" Alia slapped Alex's face as hard as possible. She was dead furious as well. How could Alex have insulted Andy that way? Andy had always been a good guy, even much better than Alex. Alia had felt stupid for realizing that way too late. Alex slapped her face even harder. He'd thought that she should never have humiliated him that way. Not satisfied with Alia's painful cry, he grabbed her small hands and squeezed them with his iron grip. But suddenly, a pair of bigger hands dragged Alex away and began punching him. Alia's eyes widened in shock and fear. Andy! The two guys were fighting, with people around them watching. Alex had had trouble dodging Andy's constant attacks. Alia screamed in terror when Alex suddenly took a knife out of his jeans' pocket and stabbed Andy in the chest. Then Alex just fled, chased by an angry mob. The others had tried to help Andy, especially Alia. His round face had been pale with agony, while Alia was trying to stop his bleeding by pressing his wound. But, he could still smile softly at her --- even with such sadness in his eyes. "Although I know I don't really deserve to be your guy, I don't ever want any other guy to hurt you like that," he'd croaked. Alia burst in tears as she held his hand. "Please, don't say that. I've made a mistake choosing him..." --- // --- Finally, the chocolate sundae was served on the table. Alia just gazed at it for a moment, suddenly wanting to cry all over again. She remembered Andy. She missed Andy. Actually, she'd always had feelings for Andy. Too bad, it was too late now. Andy would never be back again. For now, Alia could only reminisce about that sweet guy --- through every spoonful of sweet, chocolate sundae. An endorphin for a broken heart...

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Dessert BUTTASHAR@aol.com	#4 of 5
281 words
When Grandpa saw Death she was on a mountain baking Italian pastry the way he liked it: canoli bursting with rich white cream, brown cakes dripping rum down her long white apron. He did not expect Death to be a woman nor those final moments to taste so sweet nor hear laughter like bird chatter up there on that mountain he had known and loved. Grandpa had braced himself for Signor Death, imagining an angry old man-- skinless and all bones, a scythe in his fist ready to cut down a life, not in a baker's cap and apron but black hood and robe. Instead, he found a beauty about Death, shades of rose blooming in her cheeks and her eyes twinkling skylights. In her company, handing ingredients as she summoned them, were those departed souls Grandpa had loved and lost. "More sugar!" his wife Anna says to Death; "Add more butter now!" says his brother John. "No, it needs another egg," says his sister Giuseppina. But Death is a woman used to having her own way. "Everything is fine now," she says. "He sees Death before his eyes!" daughter-in-law Rosalia reports from deathbedside, But she cannot know what fills Grandpa's eyes with tears is joy, not fear. She cannot smell the pastry baking without fire. Grandpa in his dying smiles at Death, smiles too at the Blessed Mother who dusts flour from her blue dress, and at St. Anthony feeding flakes of canoli to the Baby Jesus nestled in his arms. "May I leave now?" asks Grandpa. And all around his bed we place our hands upon him as if to keep him with us, as if to keep his soul from floating free of us toward heaven. It is his last breath that fills the empty spaces in the room. Walking again now, he calls "Anna!" then "Signora Death!" No one sees the women feed him; no one sees them take him by the hands and direct him towards the Light. Finally, Rosalia breaks the deathly silence with her tears.

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Dessert Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com	#5 of 5
980 words
It was a romantic anniversary dinner, candlelight amid the soft shadows of a swanky retaurant. It was their 25th, the two kids grown, off to college, and out of their hair, other than a few annoying calls for more money. A strolling violinist heightened the atmosphere as our two, well not young, lovers champed on shrimp cocktail and delicious hot bread. For once in his life, Alvin had said hang the expense, let's go to an elite establishment and Sylvia had responded lovingly in her typical way. "You want to sit in the dark in a corner? It's bad enough you do it at home but couldn't we be in the middle here where we can see people?" It's true. Alvin's weary eyes preferred the sanctity of his 'cave', a dimly lit room where he could read by a quiet light or practice geneology on his computer without glare. Sylvia wanted to be in the center of the action in case any of the haute society sashayed by, especially those by some slight acquaintace she could "Halloo". "I just thought it would be nice to have a special evening between the two of us," Alvin automatically replied. "Meanwhile, I sit here in my best dress that I've only worn twice, and nobody sees me but the waiters going back and forth through this smelly kitchen door." No reply was forthcoming as Alvin speared another shrimp and they ate in silence for a while. From somewhere in his interior, mousy in her presence, he summoned up thoughts that had lain dormant for years (much like their sex life). "It's been a wonderful 25 years Sylvia, darling. Ups and downs of course, but I still love you. Not many couples last this long and I'm glad we did." Out of spite, he thought. "Thank you, snookums. I love you too and you've been a good...provider and companion," and an eager if unimaginative lover who had never advanced beyond being a science teacher at the Middle School. They gazed into each other's eyes until the awkwardness turned them back to buttering their rolls. Dinner arrived not a minute too soon and they dug in like trenchermen, Sylvia to her filet of sole and vegetables bearnaise, Alvin to a medium rare steak. As he was forking in some pomme de terre au gratin (cheesy potatoes) she spoke up. "Save some room for dessert, Alvin. I hear the flan here is simply heavenly." "Yes, dear." How could he think of some quivering pudding when there was meat and potatoes in front of him. Just then a thirty-something woman yoohoo'd him and made for their table, hips aswagger with an astonishing decolletage. Alvin shrunk like a salted snail. "Hiya Al. What are you doing in a posh joint like this?" "Hello Bunny. This is my...this is Sylvia." "Bunny?" "Bethany actually but everyone calls me Bunny. Pleased to meetcha. Hang on to this one. He's a firecracker." And in a stage whisper, no doubt also meant for Sylvia's ear, she cooed at him: "Call me." The polite smile pasted on Sylvia's face turned into thin lips once Bunny had left. Sylvia's rigidity rather resembled a corpse, and one that had been in the water a few days. "Who was that, that woman?" she said in her frostiest tone designed to cut through the hardest steel. "Well she just works at the school and we were just friends, I mean she and I..." "Don't lie to me, Alvin Jacob Finklestein. I always know when you're lying. You've been having an affair with her, haven't you?" Cornered, he suddenly found a backbone. "Yes, and it's been great. We never have sex and when we do you just lie there like a cold fish." "Kindly keep your voice down," she hissed. "I don't think they heard you in Zanzibar." "It was something I needed," he replied in a more subdued tone. "I'm not getting any younger." "You can say that again, Mr. Three Minutes, when you can even perform. And just when were you planning to tell me about this?" "Obviously never." The strolling violininist appeared at their table playing improbably "All You Need Is Love". Alvin told him, "Here's five bucks. Now go away." "How could you do this? Cheating on me with that chippie. Does our marriage mean nothing to you?" "Of course it does. It wasn't about the marriage. It was about me." "You. It's always about you." Me? It's always about you, he thought ironically, but wisely left that thought unspoken. Sylvia drew herself up to her full height, not an easy thing to do sitting down. "It might interest you to know that I too have been having an affair." "You!" Where do you find time between the beauty parlor and your club lunches?" "The UPS man who brings me the things from my online shopping." "You mean that skinny boy with the glasses and big nose?" "That's not all that's big." Ooh, a dagger. She was not above belittling her husband but 25 years had inured him to it. "I suppose we'll have to get a divorce now." Sylvia stood, finally able to draw herself up to her full height. "There will be no talk of divorce," she boomed. Heads began to turn an nearby tables. "You are my husband and will remain so. I'll wait in the car." "Go ahead and drive yourself home," he yelled at her retreating form. "I feel like taking a walk anyway." Alvin slumped back in his chair, defeated. He would never get out of this marriage and he desperately wanted change. Desperate enough to talk Bunny into coming by the restaurant though of course they had never had any affair. The waiter brought two dishes of flan, the scrumptious dessert that was the best in the restaurant, best in the city. Alas, it went untasted.

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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club