Sep '03 [Home]

Short Prose

First Flash
Elise Geither

. ... We're always standing in the rain. It's either too hot inside or we just want a cigarette or we need to see the drops tumbling right at us. I'm looking straight up and Otohiko is smoking and telling me a story about his sister. The sharp click of the pachinko balls is starting to climb up my spine. I'm not listening to him. He is looking down the street.
          "I can't go another night without eating," I tell him slowly.
          "I know."
          We stand quiet for a few more moments. Otohiko pats his pockets, looking for another cigarette. I give him one of mine from my purse. Pieces of Kleenex are caught on the rough end. They ignite when he lights it and flash out in the rain. The smoke from the Kleenex smells horrible.
          "I feel sick," I say.
          Now he is the one not listening.

          And this is how it goes. We talk and the other doesn't listen. We stand in the rain. When we go inside, we huddle together but don't talk. I can't eat anymore. My legs shake. Two years ago, it wasn't this. Instead, it was me jogging down the streets after work, teaching during the day and making extra tutoring at night. I saved my money and we moved to a larger place, more mats. Two rooms. He could stay up in the second room all night and write and the light didn't keep me up. We used to kiss. But I lost my job because I hadn't been showing up. Otohiko wanted me at home, near him, almost touching. I was his muse, he'd say. He needed me there to write. But the poems came more and more slowly, like us. Until they finally stopped. He tried to push out senseless poems in groups of three, but no one would publish them. He hadn't had anything out for a year. I just stopped eating. My lips were like fine wires.
          The rain was pouring over my nose and into my ears. I pulled my face down, out of the rain, looked at him. In that instant, when the water drops are caught between the lashes, I could see him, see inside of him. A swirling mass, a cloud, surrounded by a lining of bluish light. Thunder cracked once, twice. There was a flash of lightning. I turned and walked away.


(Elise Geither lives in Ohio. This is her first appearance on the magazine.)