She does not know he is there, sitting behind her, close enough to smell her perfume; out of sight, out of mind, as if still imprisoned in the dank 6 x 8 ft shit hole she sent him to eleven years ago.
This newfound café with its restored Palladian windows, factory height ceiling, and industrial hardwood plank flooring, has become her safe space; her therapist had suggested incremental steps, and this one is working. Quiet and sparsely populated when she arrives. Mellow light streaming in, illuminating the grand Venetian plaster wall opposite in a Vermeer lead-tin-yellow glow. It all coheres. By mid-afternoon, when the lunch crowd has gone back to work, she focuses on her writing, losing herself in world-building. Only the soft hissing of the espresso machine, and wafts of aromatic fresh coffee grounds filter through.
No one has told her he has been released. On a technicality. She has not received the requisite status update. This was never supposed to happen. She has spent the past decade putting her life back together. Shattered, broken fragments, some lost forever, painstakingly reassembled —Kintsugi, embracing her flaws and imperfections, working towards turning adversity into something that is beautiful and resilient. The process, slow.
She feels a sting, Nambu tea-kettle hot, boring a hole through the back of her head. Turns, but only slightly, not wanting to engage, not wanting to break solo katsu. He’s rail-thin, a man in an overcoat, untouched glass of water and black coffee on the bistro table in front of him, flinching as she twists in his direction. He brandishes an anaemic tattoo, an eight-legged spider crawling up his neck onto his cheek, impaling his forehead. Reminds her of the Japanese face mask infused with Morocco Ghassoul clay and hinoki she wears at night, constricting as it dries. She panics, feels claustrophobic, and quickly washes it off. Trapped, like when her mouth was garrotted with that thick oily rag, hands and feet hog tied, held hostage for days in that dank rat-infested basement. And what he did to her. She shock-twists in a searing gasp, a sharp inwards harmonica breath, squeezes her eyes and lips tight: those images, sensations, sounds, effectively compartmentalized.
Refocusing in her notebook, she considers this man’s features. Unique and unsettling. She wonders what his story is. Jots down a description, embellishing only a little. Markings, attire, inertia, to weave into the next chapter. Adds a chin dimple to soften that hardened maw, that claw up the neck. He’ll be with her, growing in stature, for the next two years. The publisher will later say he seems so real, as if she’s been carrying him around all her life.
Karen Schauber’s flash fiction appears in over 100 international journals, magazines, and anthologies with nominations for Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and the Wigleaf Top 50. She is Editor of the award-winning flash fiction anthology The Group of Seven Reimagined: Contemporary Stories Inspired by Historic Canadian Paintings (Heritage House, 2019). She curates Vancouver Flash Fiction, and in her spare time is a seasoned family therapist. See more at her site. @KarenSchauber