Still Life with Appetite
David Melody
Break
Still.
On the phone.
Not still like a statue, though her naked form could've been something Botticelli whipped up, switching out the clamshell for a chaise-lounge. No, still like you're taking forever. Is dinner still happening? I've already delayed Tom and Courtney's arrival by thirty minutes, but they're still coming, so why are you still talking?
Her agent.
My ass.
He was more an agent provocateur than a nail-chewing, bullet-spitting, arm-mauling missionary. My agent as well, he'd suffered a major power outage on my last book, Rocks for Getting Off On, a diamond caper I'd written while living in Crete.
I check the fridge.
Maybe I can cover with some steak tartar. Too hot to cook— 106 outside, more of the same in here, which explains some of Marti's nakedness on the patio, but not all. Yeah. There's a little more explaining to do. But not before I shape some cool pink patties with my own hot hands.
I hear a car. "Marti! They're here any second." I should've said it out loud but instead I just stare, thinking about that clamshell. Maybe there's enough room for both of us. The doorbell rings. It rings again.
Ringing.
Still.
David Melody lives in the Columbia Gorge region of Washington State. Still Life with Appetite is from a series he is working on titled Snap Shots. He has stories in the upcoming issues of GHOTI and The Writer's Eye Magazine.