tiny fiction №2: a temporary woman

on being new at something, and another experiment

featured above: still lives, created by hope olson

ON BEING NEW AT SOMETHING

I’ve decided to think of this (writing tiny fiction) as an experiment, and one that does not hold on too tightly to a specific outcome. So, I’ll start by using only the tools that I have available to me (my computer, what I know to be true, and all that is not true, or rather, my imagination).

If you are new to writing fiction, chances are it will be terrifying and messy and uncomfortable (to begin with), but you will be starting somewhere, and with all of your brilliant stories that haven’t been told yet, bringing yourself that much closer to where you’d like to go. And if nothing else, you’ll become very clear on what doesn’t work for you, and eventually (slowly slowly) discover what does. 

Warmed from a long walk in the sun and the promise of something unfolding, I sit down at my desk with a notebook, hot herbal tea, and thoughts that bustle to and fro, doing my best to not try and make sense of where I am going, but rather, the characters I’ve chosen to go with.

So, how to begin? I’ll put one word down then another, then I’ll probably delete both of those words and begin again, pulling directly from the research I’ve (not-so-carefully) been collecting and conspiring with for the past 30-odd years. It’s all an experiment, remember? Something that says, why not see what it feels like to start here?

A TEMPORARY WOMAN

Let’s call him S.

S has made it very clear that he’s not here to talk.

A, the woman sitting across from S, is facing away from me. 

After about five minutes or so, she turns her head so I can see her profile: lips narrowing into a thin line, one that points downward as she dips her head towards her hands, which are clasped together in her lap. 

Unaware of S and A, The Waiter swoops their hair to the side and looks at themself in the reflection of the glass. Cars go by and honk while suitcases clatter against the cobblestoned street. Some still consider this place their home, though most view it as only temporary. Somewhere where they can be whoever they want to be, for as long as they decide to stay. 

The Waiter, like me, is a local, and someone that has been groomed since birth by those that come and go. By those who brag to their friends about having a second home up in the hills or on the beach or just above their favorite cafe. Of course I do, the tanned man in a crisp linen shirt says to the other tanned man in a crisp linen shirt. And so they laugh their big bellied laughs, slapping each other on the back, swaying down the street and into the sinking sun, as the sparkle of the waves gently ripples along the sandy shore. 

With his arm now raised, S pierces his small blue eyes on The Waiter’s back before snapping his middle finger and thumb together. A look of disgust spreads across his pink skin. Him, ignored? Impossible. 

I’ll have two black coffees with room for cream and sugar, and once we’re finished with those, I’ll have a glass of your house white, and she’ll have the same, S practically shouts at The Waiter, who gives a curt bend of their head before weaving back between the round tables filled with laughter and smoke, and through the small, round door, swallowing them whole. 

A has taken her gaze away from her lap and is looking out over the street full of people, allowing the gold of the late afternoon sun to press down on the back of her head. S, who is now absorbed in his own notebook, doesn’t seem to notice her. That, or he’s purposely pretending she isn’t there, albeit for the drink orders, which have arrived, coffee steaming as she rests her right hand on the table, gently tapping each finger against the white ceramic mug. Carefully, she takes two sugar cubes from her saucer, and stirs them into the coffee. The profile of her forehead is soft and her cheeks are full of life and I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. 

Meanwhile, two other women, likely in their late seventies, have sat down just in front of me. I find myself fidgeting and growing frustrated that my view of the beautiful woman has been obstructed, and so, I scoot back until my metal chair is pressing up against the warm stone wall of the cafe, and just as I begin to brush off my jacket (that must have fallen during all my scooting), I notice that S is talking with someone on the phone.

Absolutely, we would love to join, he says, giving A a quick glance, eyes narrowing as if to say, this isn’t a choice. Meanwhile, A stays facing forward, toward the street and away from the harsh glare of the sun, which his face has seen too much of. He leans back in his chair and rests his free hand on his stomach, laughing at something the person on the other end of the line has said. 

What do you mean she won’t be there? S says, scrunching his eyebrows together and pressing his free hand over his other ear, likely trying (and failing) to make the conversation more private. 

Ahhh, what a bummer, he says, with a sharp exhale, it would have been nice to see her, you know, after all these years. Another long pause. Well, regardless, you can count us in! It will feel good to get out on the water after being cooped up inside these past few days. A quick glance at A. Yeah yeah will do, I’ll let her know you said so, and he hangs up, his face returning to its previous state of displeasure.

Setting his phone face down, he leans his head back to swallow the rest of his coffee, and makes a quick gesture toward The Waiter, which I can only assume means to bring him the previously mentioned wine.

The Waiter gives me a look, a look I am used to seeing and adoring (and ignoring). A look that twists and burrows into my chest. We grew up together, and I have spent years sitting in this exact spot while they take orders and wish they could be somewhere else, as someone else.

S is once again absorbed in his notebook, scribbling something down with a blue pen (I didn’t realize it until now, but I don’t like blue pens). A is turned, turned so that I can see her face, her gaze somewhere behind me, and so I quickly glance at my lap, pretending to fiddle the zipper of my jacket. When I look back up, she is looking directly at me with round, puffy eyes, eyes that have been crying. I helplessly stare back, watching as two near-invisible streams make their way down her cheeks and onto her lap. She wipes them away. 

I make a movement forward and up, but before I can do anything else, she shakes her head and brings herself to standing, watching as The Waiter arrives with their wine, she smiles at them. It’s a wonderful smile. And then turns and leaves. Making her way down the street, in the opposite direction to the ocean. S, who is just now taking notice, begins to yell after her. But I can’t hear what he’s saying over the ringing in my ears and a familiar red hot anger that wants me to shout back, what makes you think you can care now? 

Bringing the back of my hand to my face, I notice that I’ve also begun to cry, and wonder why I didn’t notice her fear or her tears sooner, which only makes me cry more. 

The Waiter, having set the two glasses of wine down on an empty table next to me, kneels and lifts my chin and holds me and whispers in my ear that I am safe. That it’s ok. Soon, I promise.

Day after day, we come here. My Brother works and saves and pretends to be someone else, and me during my summer break, just about to turn 13, is always at this table, watching and waiting and hoping that things will be different by the time the chairs are put back inside and the street lamps are turned on and the night falls and we have to go back to the place that has never felt like home. 

They squeeze me one last time before brushing away my tears with a whisper, why don’t you get out that book you love so much, and I’ll finish up here? I nod, wiping away the last of my tears as I reluctantly reach inside my backpack, watching as they rise, delicately picking up the tray of wine and bringing it to S, who is now silently facing in the direction of where A disappeared. He doesn’t chase after her, which makes me angry all over again, but then I think of her, and I am glad she is rid of him. 

I sit back down, watching as My Brother watches S slump in his chair as the day turns to night and I wrap my arms around myself and look up at the stars and see the beautiful woman with the tears running down her cheeks smile and smile and I close my eyes and smile back. 

EPILOGUE

I’m watching the snow out the window as the candle I lit an hour or so ago sways vigorously, its reflection mesmerizing.

As the day progresses and warms up, I think it will rain (it continues to snow), but for now, everything is soft and quiet and I’m feeling surprised by where this story went. I knew I wanted the narrator to be (fully) revealed to us at the end. I knew I wanted A to be timeless and to be in the midst of making a really difficult decision that would likely change her life forever (and without us ever knowing). I knew I wanted it to be in a place without a name. Somewhere that was temporary for many, and home for some. I knew I wanted it to take place in one scene–one breath. 

Getting started, as it often is, was the hardest part. After that, I do think I had fun, and I really loved getting to know our narrator. That was by far my favorite part.

Thank you so much for being here.

With love,
Chloe

This past Saturday, I taught a workshop on list-making (in collaboration with The Sanctuary), which is now available to watch as a replay (you can find out more here).

If you were able to join live, thank you so much for being there and for all of your thoughtful questions. I had so much fun putting together the content for the class (especially the list-making notion template, which you’ll get with the replay), and am extremely grateful to be connected with so many of you now.

Website ~ chloealmeda.com
Workshops ~ chloealmeda.com/workshops
Offerings ~ chloealmeda.com/offerings
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