October Flash Fiction #7 - Facing the Conversation

“…and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice “without pictures or conversation?”  Alice in Wonderland, Chapter 1

“Then you should say what you mean,” the March Hare went on.

            “I do,” Alice hastily replied; “at least—at least I mean what I say—that’s the same thing, you know.”

            “Not the same thing a bit!” said the Hatter.  Alice in Wonderland, Chapter 7

“That’s not what I meant,” Liz said.

“It’s what you said,” Celia replied.  “And how you said it.”

“How I said it?” Liz asked, confused.

“You said it was fine, but your tone was flat and I saw you look away, so I know you’re lying,” Celia insisted.

Every time.  Liz knew better than to keep talking, but somehow she did anyway.  “I looked away because I’m trying to finish making dinner.  Most people are more successful at cutting carrots while watching what they’re doing.”

“And making dinner is so much more important than what I have to say,” Celia persisted.

“No, but I was in the middle of it already.”  Liz put down the knife.  She turned down the burner under the pan so the butter wouldn’t burn and faced Celia, keeping her hands on the cold stone edge of the counter for support.  “Go ahead.  You have my undivided attention now.”

Celia sniffed.  “Sorry to put you out.”

All the other conversations just like this one crowded around Liz’s shoulders, weighing her down.  They were heavier than Celia’s arm across her in the night and it pressed like the very essence of darkness.  Inhaling, she smelled the vegetables, the whiff of fall from the open window, and a tiny hint of Celia’s shampoo.  Her shoulders rose, but her voice was quiet.

“You know, I’m done,” she said.  “Even you can’t misinterpret or twist that.  Go.  Just get out.  This relationship is over.  If you’re not gone by the time I’m done cooking, I’ll toss your things out the front door.”

Celia’s green eyes, long-lashed, widened and then narrowed as she tried to gauge whether Liz really meant it.  Liz’s back did not provide information, nor did the renewed thunk of the knife on the cutting board.  She climbed the stairs and threw some things into a duffel, but Liz didn’t call her back down.

When the door slammed behind Celia, Liz inhaled again.  No shampoo hint, just glazed carrots, carmelized onions, and broiling steak.

“Better,” she said, to no one.