Dinner and Diary

The sound of breaking glass woke me from my thoughts. A waiter in the busy restaurant had just dropped an entire tray of assorted flatware onto the ornately tiled floor. Someone nearby laughed and clapped their hands in a display of sardonic schadenfreude.

I regarded the empty violet upholstered chair across from me almost contemptuously, and then I was overwhelmed with waves of sadness and anger. Was my guest going to leave me alone in the same fashion as my lover?

I swept my eyes about the room quickly to find any distraction lest I should break down in tears right here, and I hate crying in public; it’s so undignified. I noticed that the décor in this room is drag queen level gaudy with purple velvet drapes hung on the walls with silver and gold curtain rods that did not seem to have any actual method to the madness. The walls were painted a nauseating taupe that clashed with the other décor. I hate everything right now, but I especially hate the décor in this room.

My tattoo itched, it was semi fresh. I looked down at the colorful bluebird on my upper arm, my love had always enjoyed bluebirds and I really hated the reminder of his loss.

My company for the evening arrived at last. I waved at them from across the room to beckon them to join me. He did and sat across the table from me.

An older, portly, white man, he had a tribal tattoo of a bull on his neck that was probably a great choice when he was younger. However, now the bull looked much like the person it was applied to, sagging and wrinkled, a faded facsimile of days long gone and exploits long past exploited.

His cologne was too musky, too heavily applied, and had a faint hint of coconut rum behind it. It made me think of my father really, and I did not appreciate the reminder of painful memories and bittersweet recollections.

He greeted me somberly and offered his condolences as he had known my lover for many years. I accepted his polite gesture and offered him my own by reminding him that my lover and I had met each other through him many years past and we would never have known such happiness without him. He admitted that they had never liked one another.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments interrupted by the waiter who arrived and inquired if we were ready to order. My company ordered a ribeye steak, a baked potato loaded with all the fixings, two slices of chocolate cake, a bowl of fruit, and a full bottle of an expensive pinotage. I had no appetite but I ordered a wedge salad with balsamic vinaigrette on the side.

The wine arrived first, I watched with intrigue as the sommelier poured us each a glass of the rich, dark purple wine. It was a strange drink with a fruity taste and kind of an asphalt aftertaste.

As we sipped the wine he broke the ice and asked me why I’d invited him to dinner so soon after the funeral. I hesitated, after all the subject that I wanted to discuss was odd, even for the initiated and even asking him might be difficult. He pressed me and finally I broke and asked him if it was possible to bring my love back from the dead.

He became quiet, contemplating me over his glass for a good long while. Finally he offered that it may be possible, but by no means easy, and the cost might be great. A sacrifice would be needed, and not a goat or a cow like we usually offered in these ways, a human sacrifice would be needed and the more innocent the better for this working.

He spoke at length about what would be required and was only interrupted when our food arrived. He wolfishly supped on the steak and potato like it was to be his last supper.

I, on the other hand, picked at my wedge salad, pouring the purple balsamic over the lettuce to give it a nice zest. We finished our entrée at about the same time. He devoured his fruit and greedily ate one slice of the cake. He asked for a to-go box for the other slice of cake.

We settled up the check and he walked me to my car. I got in the driver's seat and he leaned into the window.

He asked me if I was resolved in my desire to make my love live again. I told him I was. He was quiet, contemplative, for a moment and then he produced a small handwritten diary from his pocket. He handed the book and the cake to me with his blessing. I reviewed it’s mauve cover with gold script.

He told me that there was a farm in the countryside of Arkham that I would need to take my sacrifice to. He had two fervent acolytes there that had been studying and working to perfect the ritual. Directions to the farm were written inside the cover of the book.

He gave me a kiss on the cheek and I left. I looked back at him as I drove, he watched me go and waved feebly. I turned a corner and he was gone.

Several weeks later, after I had studied and memorized everything in the diary, it was time. I went to a nearby town and waited, watching for a decent mark.

I found a man who was smart, but not too smart. He was looking for a good time and I slipped a little something special into his drink while he was in the bathroom.

We were going to have a very good time!

This piece was written for the "Chocolate Cake Challenge". Initially, I had no desire to link the stories but the thought came to me in a dream. I am enjoying the direction that this work is going. You can read the first story "The Barn" here on Vocal. Look forward to my next chapter, "The Package on the Table" in a few days.