The Writer Who Wore a Packed Lunch
She stood at the mirror in her bedroom-cum-writing-studio in an ivory slip worn underneath a creamy wool shift that had squatted on her credit card statement for the better part of year. A ring of makeup around the neck of the dress left her stock still and staring. Had tonight’s applause been slight because her frock was soiled? During the pandemic, pent up with a newly-minted celeriac devotee, Reece recast herself, committing to white-only clothing once the dirty plague had passed. Showy and idiosyncratic, it was also expensive; she certainly couldn’t afford to have the well-made A-line professionally cleaned. But didn’t everyone comment on her penchant for snowy coats, sweaters and dresses? In cafes, galleries and book shops, didn’t it feel exhilarating to ride rehearsed replies about her inconceivably stainless style? The daily dramas her lucent dress sense produced coupled with her weekly spoken-word performances were the only things keeping her from leaving her husband for a position as an enigmatic hostess at a ritzy tropical resort in South America.
“Framed by the window, when he departed, she was little more than cold condensation. In the corners. Of the pane.”
After lingering on the final line of Becoming Spilled Water Reece bowed her head, absorbed the applause, and waited to float fractionally. But tonight’s gathering of spoken-word enthusiasts was subdued. Why had the usual gushing appreciation been withheld? Lift off denied?
“Maybe you didn’t ham it up enough,” Matt postured when she mentioned the cowed crowd. He was three bites into a wholemeal pitta stuffed with avocado, fermented cabbage and siracha mayo. He’d gone vegetarian during the pandemic but Reece was sure he gorged on sausages when she was away at the overnight writing retreats he referred to as her ‘road shows.’
She’d written short stories with ease all her life. So what? Weaving compelling narratives that provocatively unravelled underneath her name in lit journals and on writing websites was like drinking cold coffee – all the caffeine without any of the warm feeling. Then, after the pandemic, her right-on suburban library began hosting spoken-word performance nights. In no time, Reece upstaged all comers.
Tonight, facing her refection, pink skin between the flat surfaces of a sheer cotton slip, her bright yellow underpants there, barely – a secret longing for colour fulfilled – Reece saw a ham sandwich. Outwardly and inwardly, fit but flushed, she was thin pork off-cuts between two slices of mean white bread topped with wasteful smears of pungent mustard. Hadn’t she burped up greasy exposition before reading her 477-word story? The preamble subsequently longer than the amble. Serving meaty backstory marbled with fatty re-quips and a spray of confessional crumbs, it seemed her audience, people who appreciated narrative noise, were full. Of her.
Could she be a canapé? Maybe an amuse bouche?
She flicked on her computer and typed inCasas Brancas Boutique Hotel & Spa.
Writer Anmarie Bowler is the editor of Brevity, The Isle of Wight’s Literary Handbill, a lit zine supported by Arts Council England and Creative Island. Keeper, her play about a smart-mouth, loo roll-stealing cleaner of second homes is currently in development.