Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the second part of my short story?
Lisa leads me into the kitchen and offers me the chair at the massive wooden table. She serves us tea and piles my plate with pastries. She excuses herself for not eating them because of her diabetes, but encourages me to eat as much as I can when I tell her I have a sweet tooth. I ask her some questions regarding their home, and she answers them with animation and her eyes sparkle. They bought the house in the 70’ because they wanted to have a garden and Ben needed space for his workshop and, above all, because their two children would be able to play in it without fear of being hit by a car
But when I ask Lisa about Ben’s current hobby, her mood abruptly shifts and her eyes turn hard. “The old codger is destroying my life,” she blurts out and her lips curl in disdain. “Since he has started with his reinventions, he doesn’t see me anymore. I don’t exist in his world. He usually comes to bed after midnight and lies like a log beside me, without saying a word. In the morning, as we eat breakfast, he opens the newspaper, buries his head in it and picks his food without even looking at the plate. The similar scenes happen during lunch and dinner. Sometimes if he is not satisfied with the food, he mutters something I don’t understand, but usually we eat in silence. You can’t imagine how I feel. It’s torture. He’s killing me. You can’t treat a dog or some other pet in such a cruel manner. Even they need company and tenderness. “
I try to play a devil’s advocate and say that many inventors are oddballs who are too preoccupied with their work so they don’t have time over for women. “Look at the great inventor Nikola Tesla, he never married, probably didn’t have sex either and spent all his energy on his inventions.”
“Ah, not Ben!” Lisa jumps in. “I’ve heard moans and groans late in the night from that building down there. I’ve seen female teachers and members of the local council paying him visits, under the pretext of arranging his presentations and lectures for schools, prisons and companies. Why do you think he reinvented the folding bed? The truth is he has become promiscuous - he has reinvented himself as a womaniser. “
I ask Lisa what she plans to do and she says, “I’ll wait till he invents the parachute or the dynamite. Hopefully he is going to kill himself in some way and I was going to get the house. But, if he stays alive, I am going to file for divorce. At least I’ll get a half of the house. Then I can sell it and move abroad to a warmer country where I can live life to the full. I feel still young and strong despite my years.” She then cocks her head like a bird and looks straight into my eyes.
“Are you married?” Lisa asks
“Divorced.”
Her eyes twinkle like crystals; she bats her eyes, tousles her hair grey hair and lets it fall about her shoulders. These are unmistakable signs of flirting, despite about 40 years of age difference between us.
“Any children?”
“Two. Live with my ex.”
She stares at me while her tongue licks her lips like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey. Her chest is rising and falling, and her arms are stretching towards me. My heart starts pounding. I have to run away or I’m going to be eaten alive.
“Excuse me. I have to go. I don’t want to miss my train.”
The disappointment in her eyes is unmistakable. She lets out a sigh. The spell is broken. I get up and Lisa says, “Wait a moment.” She goes to the countertop, pulls the plastic foil from the plate and slips all the pastries into a paper bag. “For the trip,” she says and shoves it into my hand. I thank her and notice that her eyes still sparkle. “She is in an urgent need of a man,” I say to myself. Before I exit, she hugs me and plants a couple of kisses on my face. “You smell so good,” she says when she finally lets me go. I don’t even contemplate of going to Ben and saying goodbye to him.
I walk towards the train station, filling my lungs with the sea air, which brings back my composure. The smell of vanilla wafting from the pastries enters my nostrils. For a moment, I’ve the urge to taste them, but I’ve always hated to consume food in the street. I will eat them on a bench in the train station. The seagulls follow me all the way, wheeling, swooping and shrieking a few meters above my head. The smell of vanilla must have wetted their appetite also. In front of me, a homeless man in a faded camouflage jacket and a woolly hat sits on a pavement. His grey bleary eyes lift up and hit me like a punch in the pit of my stomach.
“Want some pastries?”
“Of course, mate, he croaks”
I lay the bag in his lap and the man smiles, giving me the thumbs up.
THE END
Lisa leads me into the kitchen and offers me the chair at the massive wooden table. She serves us tea and piles my plate with pastries. She excuses herself for not eating them because of her diabetes, but encourages me to eat as much as I can when I tell her I have a sweet tooth. I ask her some questions regarding their home, and she answers them with animation and her eyes sparkle. They bought the house in the 70’ because they wanted to have a garden and Ben needed space for his workshop and, above all, because their two children would be able to play in it without fear of being hit by a car
But when I ask Lisa about Ben’s current hobby, her mood abruptly shifts and her eyes turn hard. “The old codger is destroying my life,” she blurts out and her lips curl in disdain. “Since he has started with his reinventions, he doesn’t see me anymore. I don’t exist in his world. He usually comes to bed after midnight and lies like a log beside me, without saying a word. In the morning, as we eat breakfast, he opens the newspaper, buries his head in it and picks his food without even looking at the plate. The similar scenes happen during lunch and dinner. Sometimes if he is not satisfied with the food, he mutters something I don’t understand, but usually we eat in silence. You can’t imagine how I feel. It’s torture. He’s killing me. You can’t treat a dog or some other pet in such a cruel manner. Even they need company and tenderness. “
I try to play a devil’s advocate and say that many inventors are oddballs who are too preoccupied with their work so they don’t have time over for women. “Look at the great inventor Nikola Tesla, he never married, probably didn’t have sex either and spent all his energy on his inventions.”
“Ah, not Ben!” Lisa jumps in. “I’ve heard moans and groans late in the night from that building down there. I’ve seen female teachers and members of the local council paying him visits, under the pretext of arranging his presentations and lectures for schools, prisons and companies. Why do you think he reinvented the folding bed? The truth is he has become promiscuous - he has reinvented himself as a womaniser. “
I ask Lisa what she plans to do and she says, “I’ll wait till he invents the parachute or the dynamite. Hopefully he is going to kill himself in some way and I was going to get the house. But, if he stays alive, I am going to file for divorce. At least I’ll get a half of the house. Then I can sell it and move abroad to a warmer country where I can live life to the full. I feel still young and strong despite my years.” She then cocks her head like a bird and looks straight into my eyes.
“Are you married?” Lisa asks
“Divorced.”
Her eyes twinkle like crystals; she bats her eyes, tousles her hair grey hair and lets it fall about her shoulders. These are unmistakable signs of flirting, despite about 40 years of age difference between us.
“Any children?”
“Two. Live with my ex.”
She stares at me while her tongue licks her lips like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey. Her chest is rising and falling, and her arms are stretching towards me. My heart starts pounding. I have to run away or I’m going to be eaten alive.
“Excuse me. I have to go. I don’t want to miss my train.”
The disappointment in her eyes is unmistakable. She lets out a sigh. The spell is broken. I get up and Lisa says, “Wait a moment.” She goes to the countertop, pulls the plastic foil from the plate and slips all the pastries into a paper bag. “For the trip,” she says and shoves it into my hand. I thank her and notice that her eyes still sparkle. “She is in an urgent need of a man,” I say to myself. Before I exit, she hugs me and plants a couple of kisses on my face. “You smell so good,” she says when she finally lets me go. I don’t even contemplate of going to Ben and saying goodbye to him.
I walk towards the train station, filling my lungs with the sea air, which brings back my composure. The smell of vanilla wafting from the pastries enters my nostrils. For a moment, I’ve the urge to taste them, but I’ve always hated to consume food in the street. I will eat them on a bench in the train station. The seagulls follow me all the way, wheeling, swooping and shrieking a few meters above my head. The smell of vanilla must have wetted their appetite also. In front of me, a homeless man in a faded camouflage jacket and a woolly hat sits on a pavement. His grey bleary eyes lift up and hit me like a punch in the pit of my stomach.
“Want some pastries?”
“Of course, mate, he croaks”
I lay the bag in his lap and the man smiles, giving me the thumbs up.
THE END
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