author’s note: Anon asked me to write a short story with the prompt “acidic”. So here it is, I hope you like it! No warning necessary!
She felt something churning and moving in her belly, like a baby. No, it was just acid. The latte, she thought. She shouldn’t have drunk the latte here. They had a killer latte, but the cappuccino was totally smooth, nothing aggressive.
She was looking out of the window of the coffee house – everywhere, just not to her laptop, the little blinking vertical cursor. The rain came out of nowhere: in one minute the sky was clear and white like an untouched canvas, then came the dark-gray clouds, and next minute it was raining. Unprepared people were trying to seek cover, with holding their bags and jackets above their heads. Typical autumn downpour.
She forgot, she thought with a heaving stomach, she often forgot things lately. Like her medicine. What shall she do? She should go, that’s for sure. To home. Not to the motel she slept last night.
She packed up her things, and went to the counter to pay. The café was full with costumers: writers and business-women and -men with their laptops and tablets, teenagers surfing on their phones, with cordless white earpods in their ears. Umbilical chord, she always thought of earbud cords. It was out of fashion now. Like having kids at an early age.
Tick-tock. They didn’t want to happen this way. It just did. Flashback to two months ago: when they finally acted for, and had a medical checkup.
“I’m sorry, you can’t have children.” Said the middle-aged woman. Then immediately regretted it. “I mean” She looked at her: “you, Brooklyn can, but you” She looked at her husband: “can’t. I’m afraid, your sperm count is almost non-existent. Maybe you want to talk about a donor.”
Brooklyn. Yeah, Brooklyn who moved to Brooklyn three years ago.
“I told you it was a mistake!” Said her father maybe a little bit too loudly. Her mother elbowed him in his ribs. “Ouch! Why did you do this?”
“She can hear you!” Her mother whispered back.
“And what about it?” Asked her father in a boisterous voice. “It’s her name, isn’t it? It’s not like it comes to her as a surprise!”
She thought about it, that she could shorten it to Brooke – her friends and her husband already called her this – but always put it off. Some time or the other.
A young woman was behind the counter, she had maybe a little too bright makeup, like a teenager she wasn’t anymore, but otherwise she seemed alright. They had too many costumers to go to all the tables the second time, so people had to go to the counter to pay: there were two men before her.
When it was finally her turn, Brooklyn’s stomach was on fire, she had to double over, and the latte was literally killing her. It was more than 24 hours since she’d taken her medicine, and she needed two in one day, one in the morning and one in the evening.
The young woman with a tag “Britanny” gave her a glance and looked down to the marble counter, anywhere just not to her bruises.
Flashback to yesterday: her husband’s horrified face as he comprehended what he just did. And she got up, and despite his pleading, she packed her stuff and left. And forgot her medicines, for god’s sake!
Acid attacked her stomach, and Brooke doubled over again, groaning in pain. The young woman – Britanny – looked at her, her eyes now wary.
“Ma’am, are you alright?” She asked in a worrying tone. She cast a glance to her left. “Mr. Welsh, please!”
Brooke followed her gaze, and – through tears of pain – she’d seen the most handsome (if she doesn’t count her husband) man in her life.
He was tall, and had chiseled features, a square jaw, an absolutely straight nose, light-brown, wavy short hair, and dark brown, expressive eyes. A little too expressive. He had sincere dog eyes. She had a Labradoodle with eyes like this. Welsh Terrier, that’s a dog breed, isn’t it?, Brooklyn thought. And there’s Welsh Corgi as well.
“Ma’am, can we help?” Asked the handsome man in a deep, confident and reassuring voice. “Are you in pain? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No!” She burst out finally. People were staring. “I just need a glass of milk and a ride home. I don’t think I can drive. I have a weak stomach, and I drank your latte. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
The rain stilled a bit, the drops chased each other on the windshield of the gray BMW, until they got swept away by the lazy windshield wiper, and streamed down on the edge of the glass.
The milk helped; her stomach was not on fire anymore. Brooke looked at the blurred scenery outside, to her lap, to the dashboard, the traffic lights above and in front of them, anywhere, just not the handsome man besides her. He drove well; as he spoke: he was assertive but not aggressive in any way.
Then they arrived at the pretty house in the suburb, and she couldn’t ignore him any longer. The lights of the house were all out, the lawn mildy untended. They had still a good life, her friends would say, only she doesn’t feel like it anymore.
Brooklyn hasn’t written a word since they moved here, or hasn’t done any of the arts either. She was a children’s book writer, and she illustrated – at least she used to – her words as well. Not a real writer, her laywer husband said once. Everybody can write children’s books.
She turned and turned the wedding ring on her finger nervously.
“May I ask what happened with your face?” Asked the handsome stranger besides her.
Brooke looked at him in the lighting of the dashboard. He didn’t stop the car entirely.
“My husband hit me.” She answered with the truth, surprising even herself. “Yesterday.” She added, as his eyes widened, then turned back to normal.
There was a moment silence, then he asked again:
“Has it happened before?”
“No!” Brooklyn couldn’t understand why she felt the need to defend him. “He was drunk. I need to go now” She felt the acid returning, as she became more and more agitated.
“Just one thing” He said, and he reached towards her, into the glove compartment. He took out a white, rectangular card, and – between two fingers – offered it to her. She took it.
Everett Welsh, she read, coffee house manager and owner.
“You own the café?” She asked in disbelief.
“It was a long, hard road. In my youth, I was working in a Starbucks for a long time, I struggled, trying to make ends meet, then became a waiter, then the manager of the coffee house, until I could buy it after I inherited a bigger sum from a relative. Now, yes, I totally own it.”
“I’m sorry!” she muttered. “I didn’t mean like that.”
“Nothing happened” He replied cheerily. “That’s my home address, and my mobile number, not my usual business card. You can call anytime. Especially, if it happens again.”
Brooke fingered the card now. It was marbled, on costly paper.
“Why are you so kind to me?” She murmured perplexedly.
“Do I need a reason?” He asked kindly.
“Yes.” Brooklyn said. “No!” Then: “I don’t know. You confuse me. I really need to go!” She pushed the car door open and fled into the drizzle.
Another empty whiskey bottle stood on the white marble counter. So that’s why the house was all dark. He was sleeping like a dead man in the bedroom except loudly snoring. That’s how she knew he was still alive.
It can’t go on like this, Brooklyn thought. He will be fired from the firm. And they are going to lose their only livelihood. It wasn’t always like this though. They were highschool sweethearts, together without a break, prom king and prom queen, and it was clear – in their friends’ eyes anyway – that they belonged together.
Brooke hunted up her medicine vial in the dark and took two pills from it. She was afraid it was too late anyway. The last time she forgot to take her morning medicine, she threw up.
She woke from a nightmare at 2 am and rushed to the bathroom. When she came back, her husband’s eyes were open in the neon green light of the alarm clock.
Brooke lied back down beside him. His elegant, manly fingers skimmed her hair.
“You forgot your medicine.”
“I’m so sorry, Brooke!” He apologized fervently. “I’m sorry I was an asshole, and that I hit you! I will sober up tomorrow, go to work, and then we will search for a donor.”
“We can adopt too, you know.” She said finally.
“OK.” And just like this, things were all right again.
He really thought the donor father seriously. He did all the things he promised – even took their car from the parking lot near the cafe –, then while she was folding their clean clothes, he read her aloud:
“Listen to this, Brooke!” He said keenly. “An university scholar with high IQ, more than six feet, with blue eyes and… Yeah, that doesn’t square, I have black hair.” Then a few later, she almost lost count: “Currently works in a Starbucks, trying to make ends meet, but has a high IQ, light brown hair and dark brown eyes… Yeah, that’s not good either.
Brooklyn shook up. Mr. Dog Eyes? Everett? Could it be?
She reached for the catalogue, moving her fingers urgently.
“Give me that paper!” She looked at it, but didn’t see anything. She’d heard enough. “Trying to make ends meet”, even the words were the same. This can’t be a coincidence.
“I want him!” Brooke said after she could finally read it.
“What? Why? Do you know him?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“No.” She lied. “I just think he’s the perfect candidate, that’s all!”
“Nor the eye, nor the hair color matches!”
“Well, I have dark brown eyes and light brown hair, so we’ll just say she or he took after me!”
Her husband stared at her, hard, then he shrugged and repeated her words:
“OK. I mean, if you really want it, it’s alright.”
Brooke wanted to sing and dance, but just nodded.
I will tell you, Brooke said to the cradle silently, she didn’t dare say it aloud, Brendan (her husband) was moving around in the house, getting ready for the implantation of the fertilized eggs. Brooklyn stood in the children’s room, it’s almost all ready. When you are old enough to understand my books. And I will tell Brendan, your dad, and Everett, your other dad, the latter, that you exist. – She still had the business card, stored it in a safe place. She still knew the location of the coffee house. I will tell you, I will show you to him.
“Brooke!” Brendan was already out, in the car, impatiently lying on the horn. “What takes so long?! We will be late!”
“I will tell you!” she swore and put her hand lovingly on her – yet hollow and acidic – belly.
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