MIXED SIGNALS

©2009 by Richard S. Crawford

about 1,200 words

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There she sits, her ass right on the same chair where I sit. That skirt is made of some cobwebby gossamer, gauzy like flakes of dead skin. Light shines through it; God knows what else could get through, and what might be oozing through it and into my chair. I look around, wondering where I last put the bleach and clean linens.

“So.” Her voice is clear as a glass jar full of formaldehyde. “I’m so looking forward to tonight! I love Dave Matthews!”

“Uh huh,” I say.

Her legs are long like walking stick bugs, tan as dead leaves, smooth as exposed bone. She uncrosses them and leans forward; the neckline of her blouse drops down, a gaping wound, exposing far too much flesh. Her tumorous breasts squeeze together, making deep cleavage where anything could be hiding. My stomach lurches at the sight; I force it back down with a mighty effort of will, worried that I might dump my lunch down that fleshy sewer. I catch a whiff of some heavily florid odor. My lips spasm, and I instinctively lean back to escape the funereal fog.

She takes no more notice of my reaction than a pile of cow dung notices flies buzzing around it. Instead she smiles, and her whole face deforms, from her blood-red lips to her shit-brown eyes. Her hair is the same fecal color as her eyes, and it slithers down her neck onto her shoulders, behind her back. “After the concert”, she whispers in a voice like the wheeze from a dying man’s lungs, “maybe we could slip back to my apartment for –” she pauses menacingly — “coffee.”

My gut spasms again, and I know that I won’t be able to hold it for long. I jump up and run into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I lean over the toilet, relishing its clean, antiseptic scent, and retch long and hard, my abdominal muscles cramping and filling my mouth with that horrific taste.

When I’m done, I hear the bone-cracking sound of her knuckles on the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”

I stand up. “Sure,” I say. “Just a moment.” I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth out with Listerine.

I open the door and she’s standing there, a lumpy pillar of meat encased in dead skin, wearing wispy clothes and a jacket made from some dead cow. I smile and take her cold, clammy hand in mine.

“Let’s go,” I say.