Carnate
Here it goes again
After seven margaritas, the person-shaped lump conked out under satin sheets on the 107th floor of the Ritz-Carlton, the twinkling lights beyond Victoria Harbour sizzling them asleep.
The person-shaped lump that awoke the following morning squinted into the rays of white-hot sun lancing through the open doors of the deck. The gently crashing thrum of the ocean licked up and swallowed their waking groans.
Throwing aside the Bohemian-print linens, the willowy former lump ran a hand through their hair.
“Huh, curly. That'll be fun,” they muttered.
They paused. The words had come out, not in Cantonese as they had expected—not even in a pathetic excuse for Mandarin—but as….
“Portuguese?”
Another sentence fell from their lips: French. Another: Italian.
They frowned, shrugged, and reached for the peasant-chic bag on the nightstand, retrieving a slim tan wallet. Cash—USD, Bahamian—credit cards, travel insurance, and…bingo.
“Bahia. That tracks. What’s my name today…‘Taís Duarte de Moura.’ Huh. Pretty. Probably, anyway.”
“Definitely.”
Newly christened, Taís wheeled to face the deck. Beyond the gossamer curtains billowing in the breeze stood a man, silhouetted by the morning light.
“Taís is a beautiful name. Though it isn’t yours.”
The stranger stepped into the room and into view: a stout fellow, someone who’d learned to strike a taller figure than his own. Smart linen suit, floral print shirt, Panama hat…Taís glanced down at their own attire to see little more than a threadbare T-shirt.
“Hey…I’m not dressed—a gentleman should know better than to barge in on a lady when she's indecent—”
He clicked his tongue, taking another step.
“We both know you’re not a lady. You’re so much more than that.”
His words came in Sinhala and Russian, Zulu and Tlingit.
“Who are you?” breathed Taís.
He smiled.
“I’m like you. And you’ve got a lot to learn.”
About the Creator
MA Snell
I'm your typical Portlander in a lot of ways. Queer, cheerfully nihilistic, trying to make a quiet name for myself in a big small town. My writing tends to be creepy and—let's hope—compelling. Beware; and welcome.
Let's Don't Do This
"I just can't do this anymore..." "Do what?" What can't you do? Put gas in your own car? I swear to God you make me take care of everything, don't you? You know I'm on my way to work right now but that never stops you from bothering me, does it?"
By Shirley Belk6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
I love how your writing invites the figurative to become literal! It’s more than creepy you’re edging into mysterious and absurd. Seriously love it!!!!!