Crème brûlée

Note: this is a little story I wrote for class but I'm having some difficulty with this program retaining the format, indentions, alignment etc. Enjoy.


I am trying to act cool but the owner of the firm came too. It’s only been a few weeks since I started my position as Receptionist. Rachel, my boss, decided on Emeril Agassi’s new restaurant, in Orlando, for the Christmas luncheon.

“Any minute now,” she says pushing her sleek black sunglasses back over her long, dark hair.

A female hostess in a black dress shirt, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, holds the door for us.

“For what” I say.
“He’ll find something to complain about,” she says.
Eric, the paralegal, shakes his head lightly back and forth, “He’s never satisfied.”
“At least we will get a nice meal,” I say nodding appreciatively to the hostess as we enter the restaurant.
“It’d be nicer if they weren’t here,” says Tina the older, blonde secretary, “they didn’t even wait for us they just left us in the parking lot,” she points to the owner, Ted and his perverted older brother, Ron who are already seated.

We follow the hostess to our table. The ceilings are high and the windows wall to wall. The crisp air and jutting rays of sun warm and cool my face as I walk. The light dances upon the crystal wine glasses, silver utensils, and china place settings. Blonde wooden chairs draw attention to themselves contrasting the white linen table cloths. With the coarse rock walls and cool air, I feel as though I’m on a city street somewhere in ancient Israel.

As we approach Ted waits, an impatient fist pushed up under his protruding chin. The sleek wooden floors make me nervous. My red pumps are new, a Christmas present to myself. Carefully, I make my way to the table fearing a humiliating fall. A young male server wearing a white dress shirt and black tie, his rich, brown hair slicked back, holds a chair out for me.
“Thank you,” I say smoothing my black shirt dress under my bare legs as I sit.
“Would you care for a black one,” the handsome waiter inquires.

My eyes dart about searching for his meaning. He raises his shaven chin motioning to another server who is handing a black napkin to Tina. Poising myself, “yes, please.”

He leans very close placing it upon my lap. His cologne, Armani’s Acqua Di Gio, encircles me tickling my nose. I struggle hard not to close my eyes while breathing it in. Through the meal I enjoy my plate of fish, veggies. When dessert arrives, the owner is still talking; he has been talking through the entire meal. The last I can remember he had started talking about his plans to visit his parents for Christmas although I can’t remember where he said they live.

It’s time for dessert, I had ordered Crème Brûlée. The server places a triangular dish in front of me. In the center sits a half hexagon beige mound, its smooth creamy bottom contrasts against the sleek tawny top. Aside it lay a medley of berries blue, black, and rasp. I push my spoon down hard into it but it slides through with ease. My spoon clanks onto the plate underneath it. A convex bite of the ivory custard slips past my lips, with little chewing, the bite smoothes over my tongue, massaging my taste buds. I smell rich confection. The luscious caramel topping crunches softly between my teeth. I give the fruit a try. I expect the deep red raspberries, their usual matte appearance replaced by an enticing gloss, to be tart next to the richness of the Brûlée. They are not. The raspberry seeds pop between my teeth as the juice trickles into my cheeks. I ease a spoonful of blueberries into my mouth. The dark, violet berries burst as their soft innards saturate my mouth. A rich red strawberry sauce lay drizzled in a zig zag over the dish. I swipe a dollop of it on my finger and place it in the center of my tongue. The substance melts away. The tartness tingles my jaw. I take a bite containing all the elements; it is like fireworks in my mouth, an explosion of sweet pastiche.
My mind has strayed far from the conversation but I hear enough to be confused. The lawyer takes a bite of his ominous pumpkin cheesecake then with contorted face pushes it from him, “so, it’s not a big cabin but it has all that you need, a place to eat, a place to sleep. It’s tight quarters but it’s enough to keep us somewhat comfortable for a day or however long it takes us to get to Mom’s.”

What is he talking about? To my shame I ask, “are you going by boat?” A shockwave hit the table. Each employee looks up in order as if participating in a strange wave.

The lawyer, mouth gaping, scans my expression with those icy blue eyes “are you kidding?”

Am I? Would it make it better if I were?

My boss, who had just hired me vouching, “she’ll be worth every penny,” places a shaking hand aside her temple. She drops it, staring right into me with those striking black eyes, “a boat from here to Virginia?”
Humiliation assaults me pressing down hard on my chest. My stomach thrashes within me. Mashing my bottom lip I accept the consequences, “Oh, of course not.”
Older brother, Ron snickers behind a chubby hand, a faux Rolex watch holds on to his flabby wrist for dear life, “wow, Rachel you know how to pick ‘em.”

Bumping a reassuring knee into mine Eric says, “Guys, you’ll have to excuse her she’s like a screensaver.” The attention shifts to him. I tighten as embarrassment licks my earlobes and heat strikes my cheeks. “Yeah well, if you tell a boring story she tunes out and goes into screensaver mode, looks like her dessert was more interesting than your lengthy train story.”

I join Rachel and Tina in nervous laughter. Ted shifts in his seat resting his glaring eyes upon Eric. Eric sets his jaw returning the evil gawk with a wry smile. The bovine brother is finally silent. It is apparent that Eric will pay for this later.

I learn two very important lessons, we here at the Dunn Law Firm take care of each other and my nickname will forever be, Screensaver

Coqui

Coqui

It’s been five years since I visited last. That’s because my husband left and I thought it would be weird. A few months ago, at the request of his grandmother, my ex-husband asked that I accompany him to her home in Puerto Rico and here I am. I drop my suitcase on the floor. My room is still the same; it used to be our room. In front of me I see it; I had forgotten it was there, a large picture of us at our wedding. Clasping my hands over my face, I weep. The door hinges squeak, and behind me, someone lingers.


Fragile arms wrap around me and, in Spanish, an old woman whispers, “don’t cry.” Kissing my shoulder, because that’s all she can reach, she says “I love you, precious one.” This old woman, my ex-husband’s grandmother, still pleads for my happiness as she always has. Tear drops from her chin fall onto my arm.

At the airport, it had been a tearful reunion. She stood with open arms. Her left arm shook under the weight of her cane.
“Mama”, her name fell from my lips. I squeezed her gently.
She let out a tiny sob, my hair swayed under the force of her breath, her voice cracked, “You are home.”
“I missed you,” although I said it in English, somehow she understood.
We walked arm in arm as my ex-husband trailed behind listening to his mother, Letty, jabber on, of course, she had come too. She arrived a week before us so that she wouldn’t miss the visit.
My ex-mother-in-law grabbed Mama’s arm, “don’t worry Sherry, I got her.” My name is not Sherry, it never has been. How hard is it to say Cherish?
I clung to Mama, “I’ve got her.” There was a slight decline at the curb.
“Oh, be more careful here,” Letty tightened her grip.
“We’re fine.”
Mama chuckled and in broken English repeated, “we fine,” she slapped her knee and grabbed my hand. She is always proud of herself for any English she can muster.
My ex said, “Mom, why don’t you help me with the bags.”
She huffed and picked up a bag while still holding on to Mama. Her efforts had almost pulled us over.

Now, here she comes again.
“Ah, there you are,” her pudgy arms pull us in for a strange embrace. Her hot breath is on my ear. I quickly wipe away the pool of tears under my chin.
“Why are you,” her voice catches. She never misses an opportunity to cry. “I love you, you are still my daughter,” she lies.
I draw a quick breath and part my lips to speak.
Dishonest tears stream down her ample pink cheeks, “I wish you hadn’t gotten divorced from my son,” her neck is bare where she used to wear the locket I gave her. I clutch at my stomach and straighten my shoulders.
Dropping her arms, Mama’s voice is sharp, “Letty, come.” Another dramatic sob and she’s out the door. Mama shakes her head then blows me a kiss and closes the door. I am alone again.

Later that night, I am okay for the moment.
Mama is making coffee, “Quieres café?” Of course I want her coffee, there is nothing like it in the world.
“Si, gracias,” she sets a cup down for me and watches as I enjoy the first sip. My eyes close as the warm liquid slides over my tongue, “gracias, Mama.” It is quiet. She sets another steamy cup on the placemat opposite me. Kissing me on the forehead she disappears into the hallway. Soon after my ex-husband emerges from the hall and takes the vacant seat. In this small kitchen, we are in close proximity.
“Like your coffee?”
My head bobs, “yeah it’s always good.”
The tiny vein aside his nose pulsates. Oh God, what now?
“This is hard for you.”
I shift my weight, another sip.
“I’m sorry. I regret what I’ve done; it’s never what I wanted for us.”
My eyes and nose begin to tingle. The coqui, a native frog to the island, chirp outside.
“I just want to make sure you are okay and I told my mom to leave you alone this weekend.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
He scratches his side, his nervous tick, “Talk to me.”
His eyes are still beautiful. I gently place the cup down but support it with both hands, “I feel so…”
“Hey, look at this,” his mother’s shrill voice tears through the moment like a knife, aborting our tiny conversation. Rage dances beneath my skin.
She continues, “Baby, this was the outfit you wore when you were first born.”
Putting a hand in the air, “Mom, we were…”
She hugs him, “You are still my little baby. And look at the little booties that went with it, how precious they are.”
I stand and push the chair in.
“Cherish,” is all he gets out before she begins again.
I take my coffee outside; my ex-husband follows me with his eyes but remains with his mother as she prattles on. On the balcony, the night air is cool, the coffee warms my stomach, and the coqui keep me company. Only three more days.