Kismet

[100-Word Fiction]

In Nashville, she bought a rock star coat — black leather with sequin-flowered sleeves and a rhinestone, mid-calf hem. In the dressing room, she laughed — it was a perfect fit. “I’d never wear it,” she told the saleswoman. “Back home, we’re all L.L. Bean and Talbots.” She bought it anyway and hung it by the door – her alter-ego, set in wait. Then she met her new neighbors, Bud and Zach, walking their two chihuahuas. “This is Amy and this is Pacho,” Zack said, “they have a cabaret act.” When they invited her to their house-warming party, she knew exactly what to wear.

©2008, Jen Payne. Previously published online at Six Sentences.

Discarded

discarded

She wonders if he remembers the night he found that cat. Left to fend for itself in the winter woods, it died by the trail — as if it waited for someone to come back. Collar with its name, no address or phone. Alone.

He carried it to the vet, along with his warped sense of humor. “Were you attached to it?” she mocked. “Yes, and then I abandoned it,” he replied — each of them poking fun at the intimate confessions they’d shared. Achilles heels, laid bare.

Ironic, how easily they laughed at the inevitable.

In his absence now, she remembers…poor discarded “Love.”


100-Word Fiction, from the archives, ©2008, Jen Payne
IMAGE: Winter Forest, Konstantin Yuon


Kismet

kismet

[100-word fiction]

In Nashville, she bought a rock star coat — black leather with sequin-flowered sleeves and a rhinestone, mid-calf hem. In the dressing room, she laughed — it was a perfect fit. “I’d never wear it,” she told the saleswoman. “Back home, we’re all L.L. Bean and Talbots.” She bought it anyway and hung it by the door – her alter-ego, set in wait. Then she met her new neighbors, Zach and Joe, walking their two chihuahuas. “This is Amy and this is Pacho,” Zack said, “they have a cabaret act.” When they invited her to their house-warming party, she knew exactly what to wear.


From the archives, while I work on finishing my book. Words and photo, ©2008, Jen Payne. Previously published online at Six Sentences.


Canal Street Epiphany

Canal Street

Maddy and I were shopping on Canal Street in New York City. My polite “No thank you” replies to the onslaught of “Tiffany! Tiffany! You buy?” catcalls clearly indicated my novicity.

Thirteen blocks of brand-name idolatry was her pilgrimage, but I didn’t see any religious icons in the dimly lit backroom we entered solemnly.

Behind faux red velvet curtains, a thousand ordinary pocketbooks lined the walls; two Asian women exchanged furtive glances and slipped our twenties into small black pouches.

Later, in the car, I looked at my purchase ambivalently.

“Is that a Coach bag?” Maddy gasped. “OH MY GOD!”

• • •

100-word fiction, ©2011 by Jen Payne

1905, Mulberry Street, looking South toward Canal Street; found on Straats’ Flicker photostream here.