“Can I try it?” asked the woman.
“No” came his simple, curt response.
The woman had been sitting, tapping her foot impatiently. She stood then began to pace. Each step made a “swooshing” sound as her dress came into contact with her hosiery. In no time she had quickly covered the distance from her chair to the bare, opposite wall. Then she performed an abrupt about-face, pivoting on one of her high heels. She returned to her chair and stopped in front of the man, still seated.
The woman asked, “Why not?” Her voice quivered slightly, betraying a subtle, half-pleading quality.
“Cause I said so, that’s why.”
The man lit a fag and exhaled in her direction.
“That’s not a good reason,” she replied, pouting.
The man smiled an angry smile. He shook his head from left to right emphatically as if to reinforce his growing frustration.
“You just won’t give it a rest, will ya?”
“It’s not fair! You always get to. I almost never do,” she said.
He fixed his gaze straight ahead as if denying her existence. As he sucked on his fag, the tip grew to a bright orange. Then a few millimeters of ash fell, smacking the short-cropped, dense, red pile on the floor. He ignored the metal, institutional ashtray affixed to the wall next to his chair.
She stared at him, trying to lock her eyes onto his — like radar. She mentally zeroed in on her target: his beady little eyes, his crooked nose, and his mousey-looking mustache. She tried upping the amplitude of her searing, surgical stare. She imagined his face liquefying into waxy, oozy goo dripping onto the floor.
Meanwhile, the man concentrated all of his attention at her belly as he took another drag of his cigarette. Although it was an attractive belly he would simply stare right through it. As far as he was concerned, she wasn’t there. He would win — this much he knew.
He thought that she, too, should know this by now. After all, they had played out this ritual numerous times.
“Talk to me!” she demanded.
She tapped the heel of her right shoe softly in a steady, rhythmic fashion. She calculated that this repetitive movement might just distract him enough so as to elicit some sort of response. The man continued to focus his gaze, straining to see through the woman.
At last! He spied a rough opening in the fabric of her dress that revealed the top of her pantyhose. Then, he fancied that he could see her belly button. A second later, the vision morphed into that of her well-formed, tight abdominal muscles. He thought the absence of any fatty tissue surely was a testament to the woman’s excellent physical conditioning.
“Goddamn you!” She exclaimed.
The man’s face no longer appeared waxy and gooey. It had solidified. The two beady eyes, crooked nose, and mousy mustache had reformed in just seconds. The woman’s concentration broke.
She stopped tapping her foot. She knew she would lose face if she sat down now. No — it would be better to sustain her glare for at least another moment. She held a very slim hope that he might still break.
It was unlikely. But stranger things had happened before.
There! The man could see the smooth, twisted small intestines in her belly. He continued to stare. He was always fascinated when the organs revealed themselves. In no time at all he could see a light spot. Yes — it was the reflection of the fluorescent lighting off the white wall. He was seeing right through her now. The hole grew larger.
“Plee-e-e-e-s-s-e?” The woman asked sweetly. She suspected that he was drilling straight through her at this very moment. He was winning, and it pissed her off.
Angrily, she said, “I’ll see you later!” before turning and abruptly popping out of existence.
Phil Temples grew up in Bloomington, Indiana. He’s lived in Boston, Massachusetts for the past thirty years and works as a computer systems administrator at Boston College. For over ten years, Phil has written flash and short sci-fi/fantasy, primarily for his own enjoyment. His stories have appeared in several online journals.
In addition to his writing activities, Phil is a singer in a garage band and an avid ham radio operator. Learn more about him at his website.
Tags: absurd tales, flash fiction, Phil Temples, short stories