Alexandra Kelter
Bio
A story-collector who drinks too much tea, has an affinity for filling walls with a questionable number of paintings, lives with a decidedly chubby guinea pig, and is determined to one day see her novel sitting on a bookshelf.
Stories (3)
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An Empty Glass
He sits at the table, running his hands over the impossibly stiff, smooth white fabric of the cloth, and he uncorks a bottle of Merlot (the good stuff), pouring a generous glass (real crystal) which he sniffs then sets back down, untasted. The restaurant is dark now, the lights all dimmed or off completely, the doors locked, the staff long-since departed into the night, the customers as well. The aromas of the tasting menu—the duck, the onion, the satsuma— have begun to settle and fade, while the ever-present underlying notes of garlic, rosemary, thyme—the familiar and faithful—remain steady and quiet in the background. He looks around, and in spite of the darkness, he knows the shape of the wooden chairs, the silken surface of the bar, the expensive art (all original) positioned on the walls just-so (the designer said each piece had to be a “statement”, her lipstick shockingly red, her black hair cut sharp and short. “This sets the tone,” she’d said with an exaggerated sweep of her arm, a tasteful array of bangles clattering together on her wrist. He had balked at the price-tag for all these strange dashes of framed colour, these hazy shapes that wanted to tell him a story but fell short. It was the one luxury his investors had readily agreed-to. “Very necessary to elevate the ambiance,” they’d nodded sagely, their expensive suits tailored and perfect).
By Alexandra Kelter5 years ago in Humans
To Doris
Dear Doris, It has been fifty-seven years since I tried to reach you. I know that we didn’t part well. But you would be surprised by how many things have made me think of you over the years; seagulls at the docks, Sunday matinees, red nail polish, poems I’m not sure I understand.
By Alexandra Kelter5 years ago in Humans
The Stories We Do Not Tell
She dies on a Tuesday. Quietly; inconspicuously; just as she lived. Her husband calls their children to tell them. He never understood this strange woman who shared his bed, his home, who wore his wedding band for fifty-seven years. But he loved her. As much as he could. As much as anyone can love a person they don’t understand.
By Alexandra Kelter5 years ago in Families
