Angela Carlton

In This Light

Before Jack broke the news to me, I was almost relaxed. He was massaging my foot in his warm hands. We'd been coworkers, dear friends for years. His divorce was now final.

“Remember that business conference I attended weeks ago?” he asked, in his raspy Texas drawl.

“In San Diego” I said, remaining calm about the fact that his hands were on me.

“Yes, I took pictures of the city for you!”

“Really?”

“Hold on,” he said, stopping my massage to hand me his shiny gift bag. “I framed a black and white shot of the skyline for your desk!”

“Wow, Jack.”

“This colorless image is best,” he said. “It’s serene.”

“This picture’s great!”

“Also I came to tell…guess you should know some things about the trip.”

“What’s the scoop?” I said, playfully, happy to see him here in my apartment instead of our dull office. Secretly, I had baked three-cheese lasagna and bought a bottle of Woodbridge Merlot hoping he'd stay for dinner.

He was stroking my foot again, rubbing it, since I was known to complain about high-heels and the damage done. Jack was kneading my ankles and calves now with tremendous effort.

“Liz, about the trip…”

“Yes,”

“The thing is, something did happen.”

"Okay." I laughed, but inside I felt something tighten.

"I mean...something with Tom."

“What?”

“Something happened between me and Tom.” It was then that I noticed his voice sounded a bit higher.

“I'm not sure I understand...”

“We were physical, Liz. Is that so wrong?” He was staring at me with no expression. I realized something inside was spinning; everything was turning churning turning. I couldn't feel my foot or calf or his hands or hear his sugary voice, nothing, nothing. Everything was a blur.

Later, when he was outside under the glow of the street lamp, I thought about asking him, why-why-why but realized that, regardless of his answer, there would be no comfort, none.

“You look so damn beautiful in this light,” he said, as he rubbed his soft finger over my ear. He stalled for a few moments then headed toward his car. I watched him move under a sheet of mist that was falling, trying to be rain.

“Wait,” he shouted, turning with great enthusiasm. And in that moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of the way he must have looked as a little boy: floppy hair with light freckles on his nose, those root-beer eyes. “I want a picture of you tonight!”

“Jack,” I said with irritation, for a steady rain had begun. “I think you missed your calling as a photographer.” I wanted to scamper off, hide, as he held his camera phone up to the street lamp positioning things exactly right for the best shot.

“Wow,” he said, floating my way, “look,” his finger brushed my arm. He stared at me with his big, clear eyes and dark lashes. I fell into him, my nose pressing against him, smelling the musty-sweet scent that would stay with me until I decided to shower.

The picture his phone revealed was haunting, the image of a stranger with wet hair and smeared make-up, a woman shrinking, with a sad desperate look in her eye.

CP

Angela Carlton's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fiction at Work, Every Day Fiction, Longstoryshort, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, among others.

Angela Carlton

My Secret

Billy doesn't know my secret. Voices surround us at this gathering as Lou Reed sings how the colored girls go doo, doo doo... It's an '80s moment, quite appropriate, since it's our fifteen-year high school reunion. Billy is standing near my table. His upper lip curls a bit like Elvis when he smiles. It's his hunk-of-burning-love smile. And it still makes me quiver, a smile I get lost in. No one can find me.

I am on my third glass of Shiraz when he takes a seat beside me. We make small talk as he rubs a thumb on his Miller Lite bottle. His wife Lori is across the way holding a champagne flute. Our banquet room inside this trendy high-rise hotel is far too small. There's not enough air for the three of us.

At the beginning of the night, I kept running into her. Lori is elegant in a way, I suppose. In the bathroom I told her she is pretty, and that it's nice to finally meet her, even though I didn’t mean a damn word of it. Her hair is dark, severely short. She has masculine features: a square face with a strong nose and perfect make-up. The more I drink, the more she reminds me of a drag queen.

A few of the other single women I came with have disappeared and mingled with others. My hands are starting to shake, but not from the Shiraz. It's this damned day. I’ve thought about it over and over, all the memories, all the weight.

My eyes study Billy closely now, the way he raises his brow when he intends to make a point, his carefree, ain’t got no worries kind of laugh. It's the delicate details and comforts, these tiny gestures that defined my youth. He's talking about his favorite history teacher, Mr. Carr, how his lectures motivated him to be better and stay clean. It's a touching story, only his voice is beginning to sound muffled like we are trapped under water.

There is a faint hum inside my ear, and I can’t seem to gather any details. Something is pounding, pounding inside of me. It's hard to breathe. I need out of this box. I need a window.

These are the thoughts that rush through my head before I utter the words and finally tell him my secret, I had your baby and I gave her away. Then I add, Oh God, the reason I was home-schooled those years, but it comes out in a nervous choke, a way to fight off tears.

Billy glares at me with genuine concern then horror, the same way my mother did when I told her I was pregnant at fifteen. Tears spill from my eyes when I whisper, What have I done? My mouth is dry, so dry. I feel like I am going to vomit.

The disco ball reflects light around us; tiny sparkles dance about the room. I am having a hard time moving, rising to get OUT. From a distance, I can see the wrecked image of a long-lost girl in the wall mirror. Then his hand reaches for my shoulder.

My Billy touches me.

CP

Angela Carlton's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fiction at Work, Every Day Fiction, Longstoryshort, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, among others.

Angela Carlton

Dear You

I am caught up in the silence,
your web, those promises,
each one wicked. As I lay
in silk with you, trembling,
naked, cold, but warm from
your sweat and the heat in
your eyes, I think maybe this
one time, I will reach you.
Maybe this one time you won't
hide. You won't run. You won't
escape. But somebody always
leaves, don't they? And what
are we left with but space,
nothing.

Jaded, no rest, weary of
this, but still I come back.
Yes, dangling, but I find
a way to crawl. I find a way
to get to you, “I need to quit,”
I say, trembling. Again, I am
naked, head spinning under the
silk, only this time, I am
shivering. And where are you?
Where-where-where-where?
I need to know.

So this is the very day, the
moment, I break. There is too
much silence here, and all those
promises-promises-promises.
I have come undone now.
Look! Take a good hard
look, first love, before
you put me back together.
See. It’s tricky:

Here are the parts. Fix me.

CP

Angela Carlton's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fiction at Work, Every Day Fiction, Longstoryshort, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, among others.

Angela Carlton

Hamburgers, French Fries and Love

We met, usually on Wednesdays, escaping the hum-drum office environment for hamburgers and fries by the fountains. I always loved the sound of the water rushing as we sat in the open air, me, getting a little closer to your mystery.

I'd nibble on a pickle or a tomato while you talked about your adoration for other women. There was always a Stephanie or a Carrie or a Jennifer involved. Each one, sad little victims of your greatness: the piercing wit, the depth, the charm. Most of the time, my food would get cold, soggy on the plate.

I often had trouble finishing my lunch, but there was one Wednesday, this one rainy Wednesday, when we were forced to sit inside, that you did make a fuss about it. Laughing too loud, you told me to try something else on the menu. “Switch it up, Sophia, do something different, Babe.”

But I didn't. Sweat forming on my brow, I still couldn't. I never could speak up.

For there is this odd sense of comfort in knowing that hamburgers, french fries, a deep kind of adoration, this quiet love for you, is all. It’s all it can ever be.

CP

Angela Carlton's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fiction at Work, Every Day Fiction, Longstoryshort, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, among others.