Contemporary story
On

This Is and Probably Will Be the History of the World

I first visited this city sometime in the late seventies. I was 18 or 19. An acquaintance of mine lived here. Two friends and I visited him between Christmas and New Year of whatever year it was. He lived in a rundown block of flats. I have no idea now of the area, nor can I recollect the name of the nearest train station. His neighbours were mostly Vietnamese. The bars of the area all seemed to have table football and our meals consisted mainly of toasted sandwiches and bottled beer. The train journey into the city centre is a forgotten one - except for one morning - there was a man sitting opposite me; facing forward and reflected in the window I saw another head of equal size but wiped clean of eyes and ears, nose and lips, teeth and hair, as if mocking the lines, creases and tics of its neighbour. The man got up to leave the train and I saw that what I thought was a second head was a large and bobbing tumour like a sister planet fixed in orbit. And for weeks after I could not shake that image. My friend shared a cat with the next-door neighbour. The cat, a tiny thing with bat ears and a permanent scowl, would move from flat to flat by jumping between balconies. A week after we left, it fell 12 floors to the ground. The two neighbours put it out of its misery by breaking its neck. It would have cost too much to take it to a vet. I don't remember much about this city. What I do remember - and my memory is friable at the best of times - is amphetamine suppositories; transvestite bars; naked dancers; a policeman threatening us with his gun; a collection of porn magazines; calling my then girlfriend and her telling me that, at a party the previous evening, she'd kissed a friend of mine; a large bruise that, after a confusing 10 minutes with a prostitute in the toilets of a bar, developed on my penis; warm buttered bread. Each day of the four days we were there, we woke at 6pm and stayed up until dawn. It rained. It was cold.

It's autumn, 1991, and I'm sitting on the edge of the bed in a small room in a small hotel, staring out of the window on to the street, a novel is cruelly spatchcocked on the bedside table. My wife is asleep beside me. Her gentle snores mingle with the static of traffic noise and, from the bar below, the muted rumble of an argument. Her feet peek out from beneath the duvet. Gnarled, twisted, and curled, the nails yellow and claw-like, it is as if, in an earlier incarnation, she had used her toes to perch on pencils.

My wife wanted to go elsewhere. She had spent a year in this city as a student. I persuaded her to come here - I've been once before but I didn't really get to see it. We window-shop. We have lunch in a small restaurant. She says she's tired and of course I can go off on my own. But it's our honeymoon, I argue. 'Don't worry,' she says. 'If I have a nap, I'll feel better tonight.' I kiss her forehead. 'OK, I say,' and set off through the streets.

←2→

The morning rain still glistens on the cobblestones and brings them alive as if a million tortoises have stirred in the afternoon sun. The wet black trees are just-dropped widows' handkerchiefs and the puddles the misplaced monocles of forgetful monsters. Cars backfire as if a crazed gunman is shooting at random in the street. Looking into the window of a bakery, I see the sun reflected there like a phantasmagoric cake, all sherbety yellow, and panic-button red. A conspiracy of light and water paints a rainbow behind my head and I decide on a small cake topped with icing. I buy it and start eating it before I leave the shop.

I walk the streets. I make notes in my notebook - notes of random things, everyday things, of the macabre, and of the boring. I decide to return to our hotel and write up my notes into poems while I watch my wife sleep. I'll write something about buildings and memory, the streets and the stars. I'll write a poem and give it to my wife at dinner. Yes, I'll write of the indeterminacy of place

As I open the door, I hear groaning. My first thought is that my wife is gravely ill and that I will need to call a doctor. I step into the small hallway and in the mirror atop the chest of drawers, I see my wife sucking the cock of a man who is stripped from the waist down. I feel stupid. Stupid because, not seconds before, I was worried about the inconvenience of calling a doctor. And I can see the serpentine contraction of my wife's neck muscles as she swallows and her eyes, almost closed in ecstasy, now widening in alarm. I begin to shout and stop. The man withdraws and stands there, staring at me. My wife is on all fours on the bed. She says, 'I…' I turn and close the door.

My wife and I stand near each other on the platform but enter the carriage from opposite ends. The train is crowded. We have no choice but to sit in our reserved seats. I sip from a bottle of water. My wife stares ahead and I stare out of the rain-soaked window at the unspooling suburbs. The couple opposite us are napping, their heads seem to meld together as if conjoined. I pick up my book and read,

←3→

 

Nothing is slower than the limping days when under the heavy weather of the years Boredom, the fruit of glum indifference, gains the dimension of eternity . . .

 

My wife looks at me. I can see her face reflected in the window, tears racing raindrops, and I know which will win. She holds my hand and whispers, 'I'm sorry.'

It's autumn, 2003, and I'm sitting in an armchair, reading a novel, in a hotel suite. My girlfriend is asleep in the bedroom. A gentle breeze comes through the open window but does not trouble the heavy curtains. There is no sound apart from my own breathing. Earlier, I moisturised my girlfriend's feet. Marshalled by the marshmallow sergeant majors that are her big toes, the other toes formed a neat parade of milk-gum soldiers in scarlet caps, uniform and pliant.

My girlfriend wants to go shopping. I want to take my book to a café or bar and read, to do the things I didn't do on previous visits - to sit and relax. She sits on my lap and strokes my cheek to facilitate this transaction. I slip my hand under her silk dressing gown and tweak her nipple. She kisses the end of my nose. She stands and drops the gown to the floor. 'OK,' I say and pull some notes from my wallet. 'Have fun.' I pull down her panties. I follow the blonde vapour trail of her pubic hair with my heat-seeking tongue.

The streets are dusty and filled with litter. Same as any city, I suppose. I decide not to go to a bar and stroll aimlessly along half-remembered streets. My fellow walkers seem to have lost something or are looking right through me and scurry by, their intense faces fixed either on the ground or at some indeterminate point behind me. And I feel like a ghost walking through this city. And I stop and stare at my reflection in a shop window and, shocked by my body's transparency, I panic, for, in an instant, it holds nothing and it holds the city. I close my eyes and shake my head.

I walk the streets until I find a café. The cafe has no pretensions, is small, friendly, and sells a draught beer I like. I sit at a table, and sip my drink and check my diary. I find meetings, I find appointments, I find lunch dates, and I find nothing. At some point, I look up and I'm sure I see my girlfriend pass, laden with bags, and I think, 'Even those bags look expensive.' And I think again, 'Well, they would be, wouldn't they?'

←4

As I open the door, I can see, across the lounge and through the bedroom door in the gilt-framed mirror, my girlfriend trying on her purchases. I close the door quietly and position myself in order to witness this secret show. She changes out of her expensive shopping clothes and tries on her new lingerie. Most of it is black, red, white, or cream - shiny, lace or sheer. The bras are full-cupped, half-cupped, and peek-a-boo; the panties are high-cut, brief as brief - silk, satin, and lace. And some are grey, and some are blue, and some are brown, and some are orange, and my cock begins to harden, for some reason, at the sight of a camouflage bikini. 'Hi,' I say. 'It's me.' 'Hi, you.' She says.

My girlfriend and I stand surrounded by bags. We take our seats in first-class and wait for the waiter to bring champagne to our table. I've finished the novel and am deciding on what to read next. The waiter finally arrives with the bubbly and we drink it with some cheese and bread we bought for the journey. The waiter doesn't look too impressed. 'Fuck him,' I whisper to my girlfriend. 'I'd rather fuck you,' she says; so we slip from our tables and in to the toilets. After a while, we return to our seats and I pick up a book and read,

 

We yearn for something resembling fidelity, Like an intertwining of sweet dependencies, Something which surpasses and contains existence; We can no longer live far from eternity.

And as I do so, my mobile trills and the envelope icon appears. I press 'menu' and 'messages' and 'inbox'. It is my wife. And I press the pliant metal but rubbery button and, 'You bastard,' it reads. 'Touche.'

Options

Introducing your ereader mobile app!

Manybooks

Get The Best Reading Experience

App linkApp link

Rate this story:

Average: 5 (1 vote)

Comments

Submitted by admin on Sat, 01/21/2006 - 00:31

Permalink

fantastic.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 01/22/2006 - 16:49

Permalink

I really enjoyed your writing. The plot and character development was delightful. I actually thought the girlfriend would be cheating. My only critique is the “Touché” at the end. It makes the character/story appear flippant and shallow when the rest of the story makes the state of human relations seem tragic.

Nikole

Submitted by admin on Tue, 01/24/2006 - 06:17

Permalink

I didnt bother about the title at first, and I was right - you can only understand it when you come to the end of the story. And I loved it. I guess it is not just about love relationships that can take this course, but any human relationship. The story seems to accept thats the way we are and nothing will ever change. Which is kind of sad. But the way this is told it makes it all easier, lighter to accept. Would it really be any better to make a fuss about it?
Also, I liked the way the story is structured, according to time, and the sole manner of writing. A piece that could find its way into a literary magazine, I believe.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 02/02/2006 - 21:43

Permalink

Your use of vocabulary was quite effective in setting the tone. The beginning is especially emotive and made me feel slightly sad and nostalgic and I wanted to just sit, drink a coffee and think about 15 years ago. Some of your writing could be tightened up by further editing to remove superfluous language.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 02/05/2006 - 19:14

Permalink

The word touche is I think a sword fighting term. When one person strikes the other and is then struck in return they say touche as in you got me back. As to the story, am I the only person in the whole world who is sick of stories of martial infidelity and unhappiness. Would you all for the love of God either get happy or get out you spineless bunch.
The story is well written otherwise. I actually thought it might be going nowhere but no it regressed

Submitted by admin on Tue, 02/14/2006 - 08:08

Permalink

You need to be more positive in your life. And you
really should get out more. However, do not change
the style of your writing. And dont change who you
are... though if you become happy I guess that would
be inevitable.

Lola, NY

Submitted by admin on Thu, 02/16/2006 - 10:39

Permalink

ok

Submitted by admin on Thu, 02/16/2006 - 11:23

Permalink

Wow, this was, to say the least, thoroughly depressing. The only thing I dont understand is whether he had stayed with his wife and was dating the woman to get back at her or not. Its beautifully written, providing a great atmosphere. Kudos on that...

Ashley, FL

Submitted by admin on Sat, 02/18/2006 - 05:00

Permalink

The writing caught the mood of the piece brilliantly. I think it reflects the way we are all drawn to people, places and situations which can hurt us yet simultaneously fascinate us. Typifies the route of a relationship after the first act of infidelity, with all the trappings of mistrust and insecurity. I thought the girlfriend in the piece was another prositute..? Great piece overall

Submitted by admin on Tue, 02/21/2006 - 10:53

Permalink

He stayed with his wife. The girlfriend was an act of revenge but the wife was laid back about it. Power ebbs and flows in relationships. Sometimes actions - such as revenge - prove little. Prove nothing.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 02/23/2006 - 15:05

Permalink

I only stumbled across this story as I am studying short stories at uni, but I am so glad I found it. Short stories are often brash and bold with faint and dessolate hope, but the scenes and characters often let down the ideas and expressions involved. this story does not fall at that hurdal and just seems dark and pure and a enjoyable macabre read.

Seb, Chichester

Submitted by admin on Fri, 02/24/2006 - 19:52

Permalink

i really liked your narrative when the man walks through the city and the fellow walkers see past him. it was well put together overall. u managed to set the appropriate tone. it definitely shows some talent, but in the future, why not be more positive? Also, you might wanna stay away from cliches.

MG

Submitted by admin on Sat, 02/25/2006 - 10:12

Permalink

VERY GOOD

Submitted by admin on Tue, 02/28/2006 - 14:49

Permalink

This story is excellent in the sense that it is artistic, articulate, and the structure supports the main premise.

As far as the author being pessimistic, who are we to judge? This is his artistic expression of pain and coldness in a relationship. Our experices may mirror or contradict his. More than likely, our experience is somewhere in the middle. Perhaps he knows whereof he speaks.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 03/16/2006 - 23:39

Permalink

In several days I will find a path back to this place and time, ... and then I will have a brilliant thing to write about your work. Pain is a part of life. Who knew. Your story did its job - otherwise there would be no fray about it.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 04/01/2006 - 11:22

Permalink

An excellent work. Good pace, character development, and crisp time/location sets. A rich descriptive of a mundane marriage. I liked it very much. Everybodys got a city to submit...Im betting Chicago.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 04/05/2006 - 09:00

Permalink

Wow, Im kind of disturbed at the response of some people, "poor effort"? What happened to constructive criticism...I thought this story had a lot of impact, and was very unusual. In fact, I read quiet a bit and its very hard to find writing that comes more from the author and less from whatever its en vogue to write about. Id say clarify the last part of why he did it-is the girlfriend the same as the wife? Are the wives the same? It would probably take 10 more words and the story would shine.
Kate, London

Submitted by admin on Sun, 05/14/2006 - 20:13

Permalink

i love the description of the wifes toes in contrast to the girlfriends...I cant quite place the feeling this peice gives me but I love the way its bitterly nostalgic and eloquently erudite. The imagery is very memorable and haunting at times, and I loved every second of it.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 11/25/2006 - 19:07

Permalink

This story says a lot about the bleakness and emptiness of life. It moves from city to city, from wife to prostitute to girl friend, but the dark view of life--of people--doesnt change. Still, the beautiful imagery, the wet streets, the seedy hotels, the tawdry sex, support the theme perfectly. Ultimately, like the cat, all the characters self-destruct. Steve Finbows view of life is pessimistic, which some readers may object to, but this story dramatizes that pessimism admirably.
R. Kirby, Calif.

Submitted by admin on Thu, 08/02/2007 - 13:02

Permalink

It was artistic, articulate and the writer has great style. Apart from that, I cant say I particularly liked or disliked it. The whole thing falls apart, but not in a good "fits the premise" way, it feels too confusing and meaningless. There seem to be no real, distinctive characters, I wasnt even sure if the narrator is still the same person in some parts.
I really dont want to diss it though, the reason Im commenting on this story is that I really think the author is talented and could do so much better. Id read other stories written by him if he posted any.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 08/06/2007 - 22:33

Permalink

Thanks for joining the forum, Steve! Its nice to get the authors input on the works they produced.

I liked the storys use of language, the "dirtiness" of it--made it all the more realistic. I wouldnt say its at all pessimistic. In fact, in a way, its a bit optimistic. In the end everything kinda comes full circle, bringing things back to an even keel, maybe not in that dreamy sense that romantic comedies tend to champion, but in a hard-hitting, messy, and imperfect manner that is what probably most people call life.

Is poetry your natural tendency? I get that feeling from your title.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 02/14/2011 - 07:20

Permalink

This short story is fantastic. After I finished the story I felt a sense of accomplishment, almost as if I had conquered an entire novel in a brief sitting. Some of the other comments state that this story doesnt flow well, I couldnt disagree more. I loved the plot and the forced karma. I applaud you for putting so much behind just a few pages. Well done sir!

Add new comment

About text formats

Plain text

  • No HTML tags allowed.
  • Lines and paragraphs break automatically.
  • Web page addresses and email addresses turn into links automatically.