Discarded Gold
Three old men on a park bench watched as she strolled past. Blond, bouffant hair, the red ribbon tying it matching her dress, tight and short. Replacing the magazine on the rack, I hurried from the corner drugstore, chasing after her down the street.
"Wait,"
I said.
Executing a
perfect one-eighty pirouette, she faced me, curtsying, smiling. When she blew me
a kiss, I saw she was no more than
eighteen, and maybe younger.
"You
dropped this."
"Not
mine," she said.
Withdrawing
the bogus blue silk scarf, I basked in her green
ephemeral eyes, desperate to bite her puffed lower lip.
"Sorry.
Would you have a sundae with me?"
"Will
you take me home afterward?"
"No
car," I said.
"How
old are you?"
"Old
enough to drive."
"Can
you dance?"
We both
could, our swirling bodies colliding as intersecting cosmic rays beamed from a
ceiling strobe. Sweat beaded my brow. Our bodies, moving in time, touching,
caressing, becoming enamored, interacting, made love to the beat. The girl and
I kissed.
Later, as
we walked along the beach, hypnotic moonbeams splayed crystal sand.
Midnight breakers crashed against the shore, rounding tiny quartz crystals
surviving from seamless streams that had never twice touched the same drop of
water.
A distant
fire.
"I
don’t even know your name."
"Emil,"
I said. "And yours?"
"Collette."
"I love
your eyes, Collette."
"What
else do you love?"
"The
rest of you," I said, gazing across the moonlit water.
Far out
across the bay, dolphins broke the rolling waves.
"I’m
sixteen," she said, licking lips so red and swollen that they defied
gravity.
"You’re
lying."
She didn’t
bother denying my accusation.
Behind us,
two gulls groused over a dead fish bobbing upside down in the surf.
"Who
are we, Emil?"
"Two
people," I said. “Do you have to go home?”
“Do you?”
When I shook my head, she said, "Are we fated, Emil?"
"Let’s
have our cards read and find out."
Chipped red
paint lay behind the sign on the door that said SEER, Collette’s hand feeling warm
and grasping as I led her through it. A dark woman sat across a tiny table from us, greasy strands of black hair protruding from her red bandanna. She had a bulbous nose and puffy face, and
her high cheeks frowned. Malignant eyes stared at us across scarred and stained
oak. Liver-spotted hands nervously fingered frayed tarot cards.
"I can
contact the spirits, but it will cost you
fifty."
Collette
punched me when I asked, "Don’t you know any cut-rate spirits?"
My pointed
sarcasm failed to faze Mother Midnight. Taking my five, she dealt the magic
cards.
"The
moon is full," she said.
When I gazed
at the ceiling only broken tiles stared back at me.
"Are we
in love, Mother?"
"We are
all in love," she said.
Mother’s
black cat wound through my legs as we exited into the back alley. Overturned
cans of trash reeked of spoiled fish. I stole a kiss and grasped Collette’s tiny hand.
"Spirits
are weak tonight," I said.
"And
life is fragile," she said, exciting me further with an unexpected kiss.
Multicolored
rockets exploded in the distance, momentarily startling a starless sky.
Collette and
I held hands. High above reality, like multicolored balloons we floated,
unpunctured by sharp earthen prods.
"The
streets below are dark," I said.
"But
the sky above is light," she said, her smile colliding with red and green
reflections bounding away from flickering streetlights. "And my heart is
full." Before I could answer, she said, "I left my skates on the
street."
"Leave
them," I said. "Thieves be damned."
An
approaching streetcar with an ancient electrical heart struggled as it climbed
the steep hill on its way toward us. Raising a finger, I flagged it, grasped
Collette’s hand and pulling her through the door. Above us, the lazy sun split
the hazy dawn as Collette’s creamy thighs peeked from beneath her short red
skirt.
"I love
the dawn," she said.
"Let’s
make love at my place," I said.
"We’re
making love now," she said.
"But we
have no music.
"Then
you’re not listening."
Rush hour.
Carbon monoxide wafting up from endless vehicles pointing in straight lines
toward oblivion. The noise began filling my cavities of desire with mental
glue.
"It’s
morning," she said
"Every
twenty-four hours," I said.
"Must
this end?"
"Well,
I should go to work."
"Does
your work usurp beauty?" she asked
Encroaching
noise drowned my answer as I stepped from the antique, watching as she waved from the door of the disappearing
streetcar.
An old gray
dog brushed my leg. When I reached to pat his
head, he turned and disappeared behind trashcans lining the nearby alleyway. Probably
in search of discarded gold hidden behind forgotten scraps of life.
###
Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.
