Often, I will write two or three stories that I later
realize work pretty well together. This bit of flash fiction is now, as far as
I’m concerned, a prequel to “The Man We Saw on Bourbon Street” and, perhaps,
even a sequel to “Tracks” and “Terminal”. It could even be part of a sequence
with other stories. Having said all that, I really don’t care for this story
very much and I’m not even sure why I’m publishing it here.
Two Flights
By Lee
Wright
I crush the cigarette on the sidewalk and slowly exhale a
thin cloud of smoke. Wind comes hard off
the river but does little to diminish the oppressive heat. I take a deep breath and inhale the putrid,
vegetable rot stench of the Crescent City.
Tomorrow, working on the docks, that stench will permeate my
clothing. By the time I get home, I will
stink so badly that she won’t even talk to me until I’ve showered. The apartment, though, will smell as it
always does—of scented candles, clean laundry, and musty carpet. She will, of course, smell like garlic,
marinara sauce, sweat, and wine. As
usual, she will be tired, her feet will ache, and she won’t feel much like
painting. She never feels like painting
anymore. She never feels like doing
anything anymore. But then, neither do
I.
Looking up, I see the light in our bedroom go off and I
sigh.
Just two flights to
the shower, the fan, and the bed, I tell myself. That’s
all. Not so bad really when you consider
how little we pay for it. Still…
I stare at the jagged cracks in the sidewalk, wishing I
hadn’t promised to stop drinking. Sweat
has matted my prematurely-thinning hair, the heat burns and itches beneath my
clothing, my shoulders ache, and the strained muscles in my lower back are
beginning to stiffen.
I sit on the stoop and look toward the river that I can
smell but can’t quite see. I light
another cigarette and, for the tenth time this week, think about the home we
left behind and the stairs I continue to climb for her.
© 2012 Lee
Wright
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