FLASH FICTION
Shaded Desire
By
Mickie Turk
Hypnotized
by so many flavors of ice cream, they pressed their bodies to the front of the
counter. The taller, more buxom of the
two, removed her sunglasses and began twirling them like pompoms. A muscle in the boy’s jaw strained like
whipcord. She twirled harder.
They
walked out with their selections into a bleached sweltering world. Hot wet air dissolved and partitioned. Beneath faded patio umbrellas, the soaring
heat made peace with the inhabitants, allowing their body temperatures a few
degrees of détente. Everywhere else, it wrapped and sealed the
skin like cellophane.
The
boy slid into a white plastic chair next to an umbrella table and began
spooning the melting confection into his mouth.
Mercifully, she had perched the sunglasses back on top of her head. A
leopard-framed, jewel encrusted, cat-like tiara, now reigned above a poofy
Julie Newmar do. A desperate awareness
hung between them and teetered like a block of lead. Readying to plunge through
the table, through the ground, all the way to the center of the planet.
“I
already told you. No.” She was striking,
even at her age. Unlined tanned face,
leggy. A body that only punishing hours
at the gym could forge.
“But
I really do love them. And . . . sorry
for poking fun earlier. I was a little jealous, that’s all.”
“Tough,
you still can’t have them. You can’t
wear them. Mother of god, find
something else.”
His
glare made her want to scream. Some days
she just couldn’t stand looking at her son’s face. Sharp featured, straight nose, pouty
mouth. And those sleepy, mascarred china
blue eyes beneath dark-arched brows. The
same damned face she saw each time she looked
in a mirror.
A
sharp gust of wind swept across the patio bringing with it scorched earth that
sprinkled and settled on every surface.
Dust particles cankered their pink and green treats. Without another
word, she got up and threw her cone into a trash bin. He followed close behind her, happy just to
watch sunlight play with the tiny crystals on the side of her head.
That
night downstairs, the house band played the usual standards. Upstairs, 70’s pop icon impersonators sat on
folding chairs. Onlookers watched while
stylists ratted, shaped, and streaked their hair, and make-up artists painted
glam and polish onto their faces.
They
came to study one boy. The one with penetrating china blue eyes. Who wore his pompadour the way the king used
to. And poured his body into a red, white, and blue striped leotard. With ripped gold lamé tights molded to buttocks and legs.
A shimmering lightening bolt shot through the right eye completed the graven
image.
The
boy jumped up on stage and grabbed the microphone. An enormous disco ball
suspended from the ceiling and spinning like a top, weaved its magic spell over
the tiny crystals on the side of his head.