She watched him through the kitchen window as he worked.

The blade of the hoe moved sharply, with precision, sliding under the topsoil to cut the weeds off at the root. There were few men his age in the city that could match her husband’s build, could match his thick shock of wiry hair. Broad shoulders, narrow wait, hard and heavy hands.  Built by work, cultivation, the weight of years of sod and stone.

A bowl of chopped onions, cilantro and minced serrano chilies sat next to the cutting board, waiting for her chop and add the brick-red tomatoes he had picked not even an hour ago. All of it from their garden, all of it gown by him who labored six days a week in the gardens of others just to spend half of the seventh tending his own. She drew the knife across the first tomato as she drifted back to the first time she saw him, cliff diving with his younger brother to the howls and gasps of tourists in Acapulco.

He was muscular even then, deeply tanned, grimly serious as he traced the ebb and flow of the waves to time his death-defying leaps. Oaxaca, she half-dreamt. When there were violets in my hair and the borrachos fell over themselves to offer me a song. She had come to the coast with her mother to visit a sick uncle when she spotted him. He dove all day for American dollars, and at night he spent them in the cantinas, dancing and taking every girl for her turn with him on the floor. Only once he would say, bowing, and when he kissed my cheek and took my hand and danced with me two times in a row, then three, I knew we would always dance with each other. What can I promise you? he’d asked her, the night of their first dance, and she had answered him: A garden. Promise me a garden, always, and I will promise you my love. And he told her I promise you a garden, always, and later he promised her America.

And now here they were in the home he bought her, built with his sweat and hung with his laughter, their children grown and married. Their children, who would be at the door in a matter of hours with their own children, a garden of smiling faces and round bellies and outstretched arms. As she dropped the tomatoes in the bowl and squeezed a wedge of lemon over it, stirring, she watched him working still, keeping his promise. Their back yard was small, but even so he pressed and kneaded and drew up corn and beans and vegetables, and flowers for her, always flowers, while all the neighbors scratched their heads and fought to keep their grass green. On the radio there was mariachi, and it was summer, and down the back of his shirt a wet V fell steadily from his neck like a cliff diver. So shall I keep my promise, she thought, rapping crisply on the glass and waving to him. He turned to her there and nodded, giving her a wink, shaking the soil from the hoe and mopping his face with the front of his shirt.

She wound the tips of two fingers through the juice and tomato pulp on the cutting board and let them rest between her lips for a long moment. Oaxaca, she smiled, when I was nineteen and taut and every gray hair on my father’s head. Her family had tried to warn her off, half a lifetime ago, but his eyes shone like moonlight on water and are still shining, and we knew then what they could not know. She undid the loose knot and opened up her dress to the window, where her husband was stomping his boots and collecting his tools, not looking up. She pulled a violet from the vase on the counter and slid it behind her ear.

For our age we are built well, she thought, turning to meet him as he would come through the door.

He traces the raised outline of the tattoo from under his shirt.  It still ached.  And itched, now starting to scab.  Her wine hasn’t stayed full.  He doesn’t tell her he dropped his fork on the floor.  Replaced it with hers while she went to the bar.  She enjoys her rigatoni and doesn’t seem to mind.  Why spoil it?  He downs his water.  Lemon was a nice touch.  He eyes the waiter.  Thanks him, with a wink.  “…tomorrow at seven.  So I need to be up at five.”  He raises his eyebrows, “sucks.”

She pauses, finishes chewing.  “You’re going to get germs in it.”  He takes his hand out from under his sleeve.  She picks around the pasta.  “Every piece is the same.  It’s pasta.  What are you looking for in there?”  She says nothing.  Pokes around more.  Finds her perfect piece.  Watches him as she chews it.  No expression.  It is all inside.  He is inside there too.  He knows what is kicking around.  Waits for it.  Waits for it.  It’ll come… “What’d they charge?”  There it is.  “Your pasta.  My steak.  That wine.”  “Good.  So I’m covering this.” “You’re idea.” “Thought it would be nice.” “Still thinking that?”  She pauses.

“You say hurtful things.  You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m trapped either way I answer.” “I’m not trapping.  I’m factting…” she quickly corrects, “stating a fact.” “I like factting. I’m factting now. You’ve had three glasses of wine here. Two before we left. Five glasses of wine.” “I’m not the one with the problem.” He looks away.  She sees him as he looks back quickly.  Trying to hide.  He picks up his water.  “You say hurtful things.  You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m just factting.”

“What if I said, now, I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” She stays cool.  Keeps poking around her pasta.  “I wouldn’t know what to say.  How can you just react to that?” “So you wouldn’t say anything?” “Would you say it to begin with?” “I said it. What do you say?” “I don’t like this game anymore.” “It’s hard a fact.” She sets her fork against the plate. Shaken.  Fights to hide it. “Stop it now.” “What?” “The witty banter. Who are you? Fucking Hemingway?” “He was never one for wit. More Wilde.” “He liked fucking boys.” “Yeah. Hemingway never liked that.”

She searches through her pasta.  He waits.  His hand finds its way up his shirtsleeve again. “Why would you say that?” He plays his fork around his plate. “I didn’t mean it.”  He waits.  She picks up her wine glass.  Ignores his glare, even though he’s not watching.  She knows he is.  “You think I’d never do that.  End this.” “It’s not in you. You care too much.  About people. You’re aware.” “You told me that before.” He smiles. “Don’t pretend you remember.  You never remember.” He smiles, but he knows she’s right.  He doesn’t remember.  “I meant it.” “You never said it.” “I just told you.” “It’s the wrong context.” “Still said it.” “Eat your steak.” “I’m not hungry.” “Then eat that fucking tattoo on your arm.”

With that, she’s up.  To the bar.  He watches her.  Standing quietly at the bar. Composed.  Withering beneath. He looks at his shirt.  He has unknowingly lifted a scab.  Blood feathers through. Absorbing his sleeve.  He takes his coat.  She watches him from the bar.  He doesn’t push in his chair.  She knows he did it on purpose.  It always bothers her. That no one has manners anymore.

“You think you know me?” James shouted. “You think you understand me? To hell with you, Annie. You just have no idea.” He turned on his heel and marched off.

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even say anything,” Annie called after him. He didn’t respond. He didn’t turn around to look at her. He just walked away.

For the next few minutes she stood there stunned trying to understand what just had happened. Unable to comprehend the sudden outburst of anger – James always was a calm kind of a person – she was very confused and worried. She wanted to run after him right away but it would take time to call her mother and ask her to come and look after kids. By the time she reached there, that too if she did not ask any questions, he would have been long gone. Disappeared without a trace. Helpless she watched him walk down the street until he passed out of sight. Then she turned her back to the road and entered the house.

He didn’t have any place to go to. His family was all that he had got. And he just had walked out on them. Well, not really walked out. He planned to go back. He did. He just didn’t know when. He sauntered through the town aimlessly glancing round from time to time. Watching people. Observing. Searching for a place to hide. A place where he could be alone. The crowd made him nervous. He didn’t feel like he belonged here. He belonged to his family but at the moment his only desire was to be left alone.

Subway, James thought. I got to go to the station. A new station was to open the next day. All preparations done, it had to be empty. His conclusions didn’t fail him. When he reached the station nobody was there. He paced back and forth, his steps echoing in the breathless silence of the construction.

“Hello?”

The sound of a stranger’s voice startled him.

“Oh, sir, excuse me, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Now he could see an old man coming right at him, smiling.

“No, it’s okay,” James said. “I just didn’t expect anyone here.”

“Neither did I,” the man responded. “Are you from the company?”

“The company?”

“Yes, the construction company, they wanted to send a man to check something before the grand opening tomorrow.”

“Oh, I see. No, I am not from the company. I…mmm… I…” He stumbled not able to find a reason why he was there. Or rather not able to explain the reason to a stranger.

“You are?” The man waited.

“I don’t know… Just…”

“Lonely?” The man suggested.

“Yes, I guess. But how do you…”

“Know?” The man smiled bitterly. “You are not the first one, you are not the last one.”

“What do you mean?”

“They come and go.”

“Who?”

“People. The ones that think they are lonely. The ones who believe nobody understands them. Stupid, ignorant ones who abandon their families just to show that they can. Waiting for their wives and husbands to run after them. Not appreciating what they have. People like you.”

James wanted to interrupt the man. He wanted to explain himself. He was not like those people. No way. He loved his family.

But the man wouldn’t let him say a word.

“They come here and there. Searching for happiness, craving for paradise. Fools. Middle age crisis, they say. Selfish, that is what I call them. One has family, kids, why would one wanna run away? Lonely? You think you are lonely? Try to survive your wife and kids. Where will you run when you don’t have anyone? Nowhere. You want to run from loneliness. Here is a surprise for you. You can’t escape this damn thing. You’ll be all alone till the rest of your life. Fifty years alone. Fifty damn years.”

The man finished talking. A heavy silence hung over the station.

James refused to move or even to speak, afraid it might lead to a new monologue of the old man. But he might as well had saved his breath. It took less than a couple of minutes for the man to start it again. This time James discerned a muffled sobbing and had to make an effort in order to understand the words.

“My girl, she was only six,” the man cried. “Why, God? Why did you do it to me? And Mary, she was so beautiful. Everyone loved her. Why did you have to take them away?”

James realized he’d better go. The man didn’t talk to him anymore. He cried over the loss he had suffered. The loss he didn’t seem to have got over in many years. He didn’t need anyone to talk to him now. He wouldn’t even realize anyone was there.

Slowly James left the station. There was only one place he wanted to be right now.  It didn’t take him long to reach home. He found his wife in the living room.

“Hey, honey,” he called.

She looked closely at him not knowing what to expect.

“Are you back?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” he smiled. “Sorry about earlier.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Everybody needs to be alone sometimes.”

“Yup,” he replied, the picture of the crying old man in an empty subway station still before his eyes. “Only sometimes.”

Sarah Hina to me is an inspiration. I’ve told this story a thousand times to friends so they can skip this part.
But I love to tell this because its pure serendipity and I can not be thankful enough for this incident to have taken place in my life. More than a couple of years ago I had just gotten into blogging and used to blog about my everyday mundane life that no-one bothered about nor did anyone care. One fine day out of infinite boredom I started hunting for a good blog to read. So I searched Before Sunrise on google blog search. I thought ‘Whoever has Before Sunrise listed as thier fav. movie, can’t be all bad’ and that’s how I stumbled onto her blog. That was my first introduction to flash fiction. I was a total noob. I didn’t knew what Haiku/senryu/clerihew were. I didn’t even knew how one counts syllables. But reading her work I told her one day I wanted to be able to write like her. And she went out of her way to help me become a better writer. She proof read my pieces told me where I made mistakes and helped me overcome my weaknesses. She’s still teaching. I’m still learning.

But as you can see. She’s the reason I write stories (which is the source of true happiness) and the reason I have so many swell friends around. For that I’d forever be indebted. Thank you, Sarah.

Among other million good things, Sarah Hina is also the author of the novel ‘Plum Blossoms In Paris‘. I could go on and on about how good that novel is – as a friend, as a reader and as one of the lucky ones who got a signed copy. And to most that’ll seem biased. But go to her BLOG and read a couple of her posts and you’ll realize, that I am not.

Its not a chick-lit novel. Its not mushy romance (okay small tiny bits are ). But its a beautiful conversation with life. Imagine Before Sunrise/Before Sunset on paper! Sarah’s book excerpt follows right after this post along with the results.

And you can hear Sarah read her excerpt on our dear friend Catherine’s blog HERE

Other stops on Sarah’s blog tour worth checking out (and meet my other awesome friends): Travis Erwin •  25 Questions for Author Sarah Hina •  Aerin’s Author Spotlight 7ss: Sarah Hina

You can (and you really should) buy Plum Blossoms in Paris here • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell’s Books • Books-A-Million

I’d suggest folks in India to use Flipcart (they have a discount + free shipping )

Commotion crowded the café.

“Merci.” I looked up, and the waitress tilted the pot upright. Her smile could have been a twitch. She nodded before stepping over to the next table. It seemed the whole neighborhood was here.

Our saucers clinked. I pulled mine toward me, pushed his toward him. Steam rose from the black liquid, and the aroma jolted me. I didn’t add sugar, but I stirred anyway.

Across from me, he scooted his chair closer to the table and apologized for being late. He picked up the sugar dispenser. White crystal granules cascaded in a tapered stream into his cup. He stirred, set down his spoon. He picked up his cup, then set it down. He saw me not paying attention.

He studied me as I surveyed the room.

A drowsy couple sat a few tables from us. The woman tried to catch her partner’s eye, but he peered at his cup, transfixed.

The waitress moved from their table. She carried that pot gracefully, efficiently, filling cup after cup, starting along the back wall. People smiled at her or thanked her, and she never said anything, only halfheartedly smiled back and nodded.

The grey sky muffled the midsummer morning; conversations became a steady grumble. A gentle wind sighed through the open doors and windows.

He snapped his fingers, bringing my eyes back to him.

I smiled politely. “Hi.”

His face had pleased me once upon a time, from his piercing eyes to his untamed hair to the squareness of his jaw to the cleft in his chin. I had known his countenance for years now.

His voice blended in with the chattering. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but I knew he was breaking up with me. He called last night. We agreed to meet here, at this time, for that reason. It didn’t surprise me.

He slid his saucer over a bit too quickly. A little bit of liquid lurched and sloshed onto the table.

I kept stirring.

A woman sat by herself over by the far window. She looked wistfully out at the plaza. An infused fog floated from the two cups at her table.

I returned my gaze to the man across from me. His mouth formed words that stuttered through the pervading interference, words about our not talking to each other, about our growing apart, about our interests changing.

About our not loving each other anymore.

What was I supposed to say?

Spoons swirled in cups all around me and tapped bent melodies on the brims. I had a peripheral awareness of how my wrist kept rotating, round and round, guiding the spoon, first clockwise, then the other way.

Bits of dialogue bounced around the room. The same, sad refrain swelled in hushed echoes and counterpoints throughout the crowd, like a fugue with a broken heart.

The nervous clatter from all the voices, the cups, the spoons, the coffee, jammed my ears.

He slid his saucer back in front of him.

My spoon kept moving, as did my eyes.

A woman at a corner table tore pieces of her croissant and dipped them in her coffee before eating them. The man sitting beside her leaned closer to her. His hands waved and pointed at something imaginary, which he seemed to be explaining.  He looked at her patiently. He shrugged.

Her eyes focused on her morning sop.

The man sitting across from me raised his cup to his mouth, pressed his bottom lip against the close edge and sipped. The liquid flowed between his teeth, and he swallowed. He sipped again. He closed his eyes while letting the coffee course through his body, his brain, his heart. He pursed his lips and exhaled.

I held my breath.

He set the cup down. He reached toward me and wrapped his clammy fingers around my hand.

He let go.

He sipped again.

Then, he drank deeply.

The waitress had begun to serve the center tables. She hadn’t taken a break; she hadn’t refilled the pot.  She poured cup after cup, gave nod after formal nod. No one refused her. The scent of the warm, dark nectar permeated the entire café and wafted outside, luring passersby to enter.

I put my spoon down on the saucer and looked back at the corner table. The woman was gone, her croissant was gone. The man that came with her looked confused and sullen. Lost. He scoped the café, perhaps wondering where his love went.

The man across from me said I’m a different person now, he asked where we went wrong, when I just stopped caring. He drank his coffee in between complaints of how I don’t meet his expectations, how boring our relationship has become, how much he has grown and improved and become a better person to make me happy; how I’ve made no effort to progress with him.

The waitress had already started bringing people their checks, outer tables first. Without breaking her stride, she placed a bill between our cups.

I took it. “Merci.”

The man from the corner table left. A few moments later, two ladies, separately, also departed.

The waitress returned to the serving station. Smirking, she leaned against the counter and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

As my eyes followed her, the man across from me expressed that I’m different but it’s not a good kind of different; how his perspective has changed and mine hasn’t, so I don’t see how much he feels sorry for me. I turned my head to face him. I strained to hear him as his voice merged with silence. He took one last gulp. He said I couldn’t even see him.

Suddenly, and for a long time, it was true.

I must be good at something –

law of averages and such –

just haven’t figured out yet

what it is or quite how much

broken bells

and broken clocks

and rusted keys

to broken locks

I know nobody’s perfect

so the converse must be true –

everyone must have a place

and something they can do

broken clocks

and broken plates

and hinges hung

with broken gates

the people rushing past me

all have somewhere else to be -

six billion people out there

so there must be one for me

even broken clocks

they say

are right a couple

times a day.

Jones was an unsure man. Throughout his short life he was always in two minds about everything. Did he choose the right career? Did he choose the right wife? Were the kids growing up right? Were they really his kids?

But none of that mattered anymore. His career was long over. The kids were already dead. His wife, he shot her in the head point blank with his double barrel pump-action shotgun. Nothing mattered anymore, because for once in his life he was sure, that the world as he knew it had come to an end.

All the efforts by the government to stop the virus outbreak had gone kaput. He had pleaded and pleaded to the government, not to use gunpowder based explosives on them, it’ll only aid in the virus to spread at a faster rate. But they wouldn’t listen. After all, he had created the virus in the first place, so he knew best. The fact that he led to the outbreak didn’t help much with his credibility. For once know one could blame Microsoft, they did ask him 5 times ‘Do you really want to run the unauthorized program’ and he did. Curios minds, these scientists.

He loved those zombie movies, for he knew he could make them come alive. He also knew that reality would be much more brutal than what the movies showed. He was right.

He was now probably the only human left who was unexposed to the virus, thanks to the handy gas mask in his laboratory and the gun from the dead security guard. But now, the gas was running out. His family was dead. He had nothing left to live for.

So he loaded his gun and dashed out of his home, and ran down the street, determined to take down as many of those zombies as he could. He didn’t encounter anyone for a couple of blocks and saw McDonalds was open. Burgers just lying there. He thought why not eat a couple before he went down fighting. He realized the flaw in his plan as soon as he opened the glass lid of his gass mask to eat the burgers. “Oh Shit!” he thought out loud, as he began to turn a zombie himself. These burgers would kill you, his wife always dead. Who thought, she’d turn out to be the smart one. As his skin started to show blisters he heard some one call out his name – “Jones! Jones! Dr. Jones wake up now! Your wife is here to see you…”

The gunslinger added a couple of bullets into the barrel of her gun and cocked it.

It clicked satisfyingly. She heard noises outside. A chain rattled nearby. All her senses were on high alert.

She had been combat ready for a while. His smile had been taunting her for a while. It was like he kept expecting her to do something.

Her negligee reeked of his sweat. She refused to wash it. It reminded her of why the deed had to be done.

She stood in the middle of the four poster bed and stared into his scared eyes. She had never seen him in this state before.

The gun, felt even more solid now. It felt like an old lover – tingling with the anticipation yet knowing nothing was ever going to happen. But she would make it happen. It was time.

The gun roared. Red pillow feathers swirled around her. Their touch was light, almost comforting in their nothingness.