The Six O’clock Café – Short Story by Gabriela Marie Milton

The night had too many eyes, too many tears, and too many candles. It left sticky traces of wax in our souls. Escaped from its unbearable seduction, the morning light felt like a benediction: the smell of fresh brewed coffee, the whiteness of the tablecloth, the raspberry cobblers aligned on the window of the freezer, your eyes clearer than any mountain spring ever known.

We finished our coffees. Christina, the waitress, blew us a kiss and then threw her hands in the air. Her high-pitched voice rang in my ears:

“Don’t forget to return to the Six O’clock Café, you love birds.”

“We will be back tomorrow.”

I saw the trolley moving like a red sleepwalking worm through the windows. We rushed out.

We watched the city and the sea come to life from our chairs, side by side. It was a bridal time filled with the smell of salt and sweet oranges. Your lips trembled, and you spoke about our wedding.

We were going to get married on a boat. We would leave the shore on a Sunday morning. Behind us, all church bells would toll. I would wear a simple dress made from hemp, and a crown of pink fresh roses gathered the midnight before our marriage when the moon rose from the waters. A huge basket filled with a thousand cherries would be set at our feet to make our marriage as sweet as their flesh. Blue and white threads wrapped around our wrists would protect us forever.

The end of the line.

How did we end up at the Six O’clock Café again? The trolley must have gone in a circle. We laughed, got off the trolley, and entered the place.

I thought everything looked strange. The refrigerator was now on the other wall, and the tablecloths were no longer white. A long-faced waiter passed me.

I asked:

“Is Christina here?”

“Christina? Oh, Christina quit working here five years ago.”

Numb, I looked at you. There was something deeper than desperation in your eyes. Something that I could not translate.

Your arms pull me to your chest. I could hear your whisper.

“Please tell me we are married.”

I looked at my fingers. I had no wedding band.

Reminder

Please stay tuned for more updates on Tranquility: An Anthology of Haiku. Tentative publication date: late April. Publisher Literary Revelations.

My books (Only English)
#1 Amazon bestseller, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings (Vita Brevis)
#1 Amazon Bestseller, Women: Splendor and Sorrow (Vita Brevis)

Thank you to all my followers who reviewed my books.
Please read other reviews here:

Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose by Gabriela Marie Milton in Portland Book Review
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose by Gabriela Marie Milton in Manhattan Book Review
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings in San Francisco by Gabriela Marie Milton in San Francisco Book Review
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings by Gabriela Marie Milton In Manhattan Book Reviews

Christina Schwarz, the author of the New York Times Bestseller “Drowning Ruth.”

The Blue Jay’s Feather by Gabriela Marie Milton #short story #literature

Image: Gabriela Marie Milton, 2022, Interior of Capela dos Ossos, Évora

Autumn. The day after Helen left for Madeira. The city’s noises vanish in a moribund sun. A paraffin lamp burns on a glass table. The light trickles on the walls like water. There is something familiar about this room. Vague scents of dried flowers. Tear-like motifs on the walls.

I hear footsteps.
I shudder.

– Miguel, let’s get out of here.

He put his hand over my month.

Laughter comes from upstairs. It’s Jacques’ laughter. His and the laughter of a woman. She is not Helen. It can’t be her. Helen left yesterday. What am I thinking? The laughter can’t be Jacques’ either. He is dead. Jacques is dead.

The smell of the dried flowers Helen put on his coffin on the day of his funeral invades my nostrils.

I pull away from Miguel’s arms, my soul dark, the tightness in my throat stronger. In a mirror I replace my image with that of my mother. My voice is not mine anymore.

– Miguel, with you or without you, I am getting out of here. Where is the door?

He bites his upper lip.

–Anastasia, I know you are surprised.

I am enraged.

–Surprised? Who? Me? If Winston Churchill would walk in this room right now, wearing Josephine Baker’s famous top hat instead of his, and Bottega Veneta stiletto sandals I would not blink an eye. From now on until the end of my days I swear nothing is going to surprise me anymore.

The light from his eyes vanishes.

– Anastasia, how many times have you asked me for the truth?

I shout.

–Oh, the truth. Stories masquerading reality: the plot, the characters, the setting, the conflict, the theme. Spare me the banalities. I do not need your truth anymore. I want to get out of here. There are dead people in here, or ghosts, or whatever. I want out.

—Anastasia…. Listen…

The geometry of the space changes. Through a little square cut from nothingness, I see a lonely blue jay feather floating in the sky.

Paraffin and dried flowers.

Was Jacques dead?

*draft – modified version of The Blue Jay’s Feather, a piece published in my #1 Amazon Bestselling Book: Woman: Splendor and Sorrow I: Love Poems and Poetic Prose.

Announcements:

I wrote in a previous post that I was going to launch a new project in mid-October. Thank you to all my followers who expressed interest. The launching may come a bit later due to circumstances that are out of my control. Please be patient. Much love to all of you.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who reads and supports my work. Your likes, comments and shares brighten my days. Thank you to those of you who brought to my attention that my posts are getting reproduced on some WP sites on their entirety without my permission and without any links to my original work. To the very few of my followers who do that a gentle reminder for now: unauthorized use and/or duplication of my posts without express and written permission from me is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Thank you.

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

Young Autumn by Gabriela Marie Milton #poetic prose #short story #literature

Lethargic trees, nights dripping verses in our bed, Baudelaire’s ennui silhouetted against my soul. A young autumn, breasts stuck to the moon, cloudy eyes caught between sunrise and sunset.

There are too many eyes in this place: mine, yours, those of the portraits and the photographs on the walls, why do we have so many portraits and photographs?

Facing the armoire, left arm under your head, you sleep. Black dahlias invade the bedroom. I listen to the sound of nothingness.

I sit in front of the computer. On the screen, Sebastian’s letter.

Anastasia, I have no idea why Jacques fell in love with you. Your mild manners, your lipstick always in the right place, banal essences of Coco Channel on your clothes. Why do you dress in black all the time? Oh, wait, I know, Baudelaire, À une passante,

La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait.
Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse,
Une femme passa, d’une main fastueuse
Soulevant, balançant le feston et l’ourlet

That’s the way you got Jacques. Soft black fabrics, mixtures of innocence and mysteries, the majestic air of an untouchable nun burning with desires.

I try fitting in one of your dresses. Why do you pick taffeta all the time? It’s so yesterday.

I look down. Ravishing view from your balcony. The moon bathes in the water, nightingales sing, the air is soft like the touch of a virgin… Beauty and then forever night… How I long for the forever night… the black of your dresses…

I am not in our bedroom anymore. I hang onto the balustrade of my condo’s balcony. Void. Impulses of self-destruction. I taste their ashes. A mannequin floats in the air. I am scared…

Jacques’ arms wrap around my shoulders.

–Anastasia what are you doing in front of the computer? It’s 3am. Back to bed.

–Sebastian…. Sebastian’s letter on the screen…. Read it.

–What letter, love? There is no letter on the screen. There’s a website that says, “Travel to Corsica.”

*draft

…