Flash Fiction

ON THE HOUSE

by

Cindy Dale
 

Reggae rises, does a slow samba with the sweet ganja in the warm Jamaican night. We sit at a thatched roof bar on the leeward coast of the island, a stone's throw from the water's edge. A tangerine sun is sinking fast into turquoise waters. Our Red Stripes are nearly empty, our five days nearly over.

Two more bottles of beer magically appear. "On the house," the bartender smiles. He is shirtless, dreadlocked, with the whitest teeth I have ever seen. We clink bottles. We have lost count, not that it matters. This is Jamaica, and Jamaica time is no time. Still, somewhere in the back of our heads the clock has started ticking again, the countdown begun. This is our last night. Tomorrow morning, before the sun rises, a taxi--really a beat-up jeep with a stoned driver named Bill who came here for a week twenty years ago and never left, the same over-the-hill hippie who drove us here five days ago--will be waiting outside of our cottage. For a flat one hundred-dollar fee, he will take us the four bumpy hours through tangled back roads, back to Montego and the airport where, although we will arrive by nine a.m., the tropical bar will already be open, the last rum-laced drinks waiting for us before our departure, before our return to reality. This is what we are both thinking about. Tomorrow, and what comes next.

"We didn't resolve anything, did we?" he asks.

"No." I take a swallow of beer. It is cold and tastes good. We haven't eaten since breakfast, an explosion of tropical fruits and muddy coffee, and I should be drunk, with my stomach so empty, but I am not. I am oddly clear-headed, more so than I have been in a long time.

He squints at me, although there is no need to. The sun is gone now, melted below the flat horizon, dissolved in the distance. "I'm sorry. I'd hoped to, you know?" he says.

"Me, too," I say. Funny, he looks different right now with his hand raised above the squint, as if to shield the non-existent sun. He hasn't shaved in three days, and the growth shadows his jaw, something I have never witnessed before. His skin has darkened with the sun, to an unfamiliar shade. If I were to walk up to this bar right now not expecting him, I am not sure I would recognize him.

"What will we do?" He brings his hand down, lets it graze my own hand which is resting on the bar, playing with the loose change of several rounds ago. My hand stops, and I drop the coins. With his middle finger, he twirls the gold band on my ring finger around and around and around.

"What do you want to do?" I counter, not that his response matters. Sometime before the sunset, I made up my mind.

"I love you, you know," he says.

"You've told me." I smile, take my hand back and fold it chastely in my lap with my other hand.

"Doesn't it matter?" he asks.

"I'm not sure it does," I say. My skin is tingling from today's sun. I overdid it, especially today. It will hurt tomorrow, and for several days to come.

*

We arrive at the airport by nine a.m. I had hoped to sleep on the ride, but our driver talked non-stop. How was our trip? When were we coming back? Wasn't this paradise?

The rest of last night is a blur. The Red Stripes kept magically appearing. Somewhere along the way we ordered dinner. Fresh fish. Corn. Rice. Later, with the music still playing, we stumbled back to the cottage where our bags were already packed. We turned our backs to each other and slept without touching on the fresh sheets.

The loudspeaker announces the flight to Chicago. "I guess this is it," he says. We are at the bar, drinking our last mugs of muddy coffee. He gets up, slings his duffle bag over his shoulder, and for a moment I want to retract my decision. He looks so handsome, so possible.

"Will we keep in touch?" he asks.

I close my eyes, shake my head no. By the time I open my eyes, he is gone.

My own flight to New York is an hour later. When we are airborne, the flight attendant passes through with a tray of mimosas. "On the house," she says. I take one and sip the orange froth, thinking nothing is ever truly on the house. I look down at my left hand, the gold band still in place. I am glad I did not remove it, like he had requested. I am glad there will be a band of white on my tanned finger to verify my lie about where I have been and with whom, to remind me of what I almost gave away.



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Cindy Dale lives on the ocean in West Gilgo Beach, NY with her husband, two kids, cat and dog.

Her stories have appeared in ZOETROPE: ALL STORY EXTRA, THE SOUTH CAROLINA REVIEW, THE AMHERST REVIEW, TH POTOMAC REVIEW, REED, THE BRIDGE and other literary journals and anthologies. Like everyone else, she is working on a novel.

Reach her at TheDales@aol.com.