Flash fic - Inherent Contradictions
May. 18th, 2009 08:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamingaloudOur first date was in a coffee shop.
She hated the taste of coffee, but she drank it anyway. For the caffeine, she said. I always knew she was a liar. She was beautiful when she drank coffee, and she knew it. Of course, you could scarcely call it coffee by the time she got through with it. She steadily added sugar and cream, lightening the concoction by shades until it nearly matched the off-white of the ceramic mug. Her delicate fingers cradled the mug's smooth surface, lips barely touching the rim, taking only the smallest of sips. She seemed more content holding the cup anyway, letting the warmth of the beverage slowly seep into her fingers and palms. When her hands were warm (and the coffee cold), she abruptly threw her head back and tilted the mug, swallowing the lukewarm liquid in three big gulps.
She quickly, efficiently deposited our cups into the used dish tray and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go," she said.
We stepped outside into the autumn wind, hair tousled from the chilly gusts. Her right hand slid into my left one. Her fingers were still slightly warm from the coffee. We walked along the quiet streets, twilight shadows slanting across our path. Her free hand stretched delicately outward, and her fingers brushed against whatever happened to be there. She ran her hands over wooden fences and bicycle seats without prejudice, skimming her fingertips over parking meters and tree trunks. Yet there was a hesitancy to it. Before each new surface, her fingers recoiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if she were testing her own reality against these randomly-occurring objects, and she was afraid that she might eventually slip, as if her hand might suddenly move unbidden through the metal or wood instead of across it. Every successful contact seemed a relief for her, yet she could not dwell upon it, not so long as we continued moving.
We passed beside a long stretch of chain-link fence. Her fingers traced the interlocking rings, falling into the rhythm of moving up and down and up along its length. Suddenly, she reached out and laced her fingers through the metal, grabbing the fence firmly. She tugged gently on my hand, pulling me closer to her until our faces were almost touching.
"I can't love you," she whispered. Her eyes were locked on mine. "Not in the way you love me."
"I know," I said. "I think maybe that's why I love you in the first place."
I kissed her then, the only time I'd ever kiss her. Her lips tasted sweet, like sugary, milky coffee.
She hated the taste of coffee, but she drank it anyway. For the caffeine, she said. I always knew she was a liar. She was beautiful when she drank coffee, and she knew it. Of course, you could scarcely call it coffee by the time she got through with it. She steadily added sugar and cream, lightening the concoction by shades until it nearly matched the off-white of the ceramic mug. Her delicate fingers cradled the mug's smooth surface, lips barely touching the rim, taking only the smallest of sips. She seemed more content holding the cup anyway, letting the warmth of the beverage slowly seep into her fingers and palms. When her hands were warm (and the coffee cold), she abruptly threw her head back and tilted the mug, swallowing the lukewarm liquid in three big gulps.
She quickly, efficiently deposited our cups into the used dish tray and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Let's go," she said.
We stepped outside into the autumn wind, hair tousled from the chilly gusts. Her right hand slid into my left one. Her fingers were still slightly warm from the coffee. We walked along the quiet streets, twilight shadows slanting across our path. Her free hand stretched delicately outward, and her fingers brushed against whatever happened to be there. She ran her hands over wooden fences and bicycle seats without prejudice, skimming her fingertips over parking meters and tree trunks. Yet there was a hesitancy to it. Before each new surface, her fingers recoiled slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if she were testing her own reality against these randomly-occurring objects, and she was afraid that she might eventually slip, as if her hand might suddenly move unbidden through the metal or wood instead of across it. Every successful contact seemed a relief for her, yet she could not dwell upon it, not so long as we continued moving.
We passed beside a long stretch of chain-link fence. Her fingers traced the interlocking rings, falling into the rhythm of moving up and down and up along its length. Suddenly, she reached out and laced her fingers through the metal, grabbing the fence firmly. She tugged gently on my hand, pulling me closer to her until our faces were almost touching.
"I can't love you," she whispered. Her eyes were locked on mine. "Not in the way you love me."
"I know," I said. "I think maybe that's why I love you in the first place."
I kissed her then, the only time I'd ever kiss her. Her lips tasted sweet, like sugary, milky coffee.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 10:41 am (UTC)For the record, advice is advice. You don't have to be trained in reading to give constructive criticism on a piece. I'm certainly not a particularly well-trained writer, so I'm not going to turn aside any hints you might offer.
What about those parts made it effective? If you don't know, it's okay, I was just curious. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-22 07:25 pm (UTC)Although coffee would generally seem pretty mundane, the first part and the way the ending ties back into it makes it clear that there's a lot of symbolism there - which I won't try to analyze here and I'm sure there's more than one way to interpret - which, combined with the fact that it's written well makes it entertaining and makes you think when you read it. This isn't to say everything should be super symbolic all the time - adding symbolism where it isn't necessary, as you know, is more than likely to come across as ham-handed - but in this instance it worked very well because it was meaningful and played into the characterization of the girl in a significant way.
As for the middle part I liked the early sort of snapshot descriptions - one hand sliding into the other, the quiet streets, etc.
Keep in mind again though that I know less about writing and more about what is enjoyable for me to read so the things I say may not be the best advice to be listening to.