Underwater Vibes

by Mickey Brent

  Hélène smiled as she remembered her coiffeur’s remark. Then she glanced at her cat, which was getting dangerously close to her sandwich. “Nice decoration you’ve got there, bébé,” she said, giggling as she plucked sprouts from Chaussette’s whiskers.

  *****

  Sylvie’s stomach gurgled as she pushed down her toes. As usual, it was a balancing act—one hand on the handlebars, the other grasping her camera, dangling from her neck. And now, her stomach was gurgling. Just what I needed, indigestion.

  Her thoughts kept returning to the man at the market café.

  There he had sat, in his flashy sports outfit, slurping his beer. When she had approached his table, his phone had rung. His chiseled cheeks blushed as he whispered into the receiver. She only caught a few words, but she could tell from the way he had stroked his mustache that he was flirting on the phone.

  Is that Hélène on the other end? she wondered. He didn’t seem to notice her standing nearby. He had simply ordered another beer, made kissing noises into the receiver, and then hung up.

  As she approached the park, the latent sunlight filtering its rays through the trees projected delicate shadows before her. Whenever she saw something intriguing, Sylvie always held her breath. Grasping the camera as she pedaled, she recorded her images of couples snoozing in the park, migrants’ legs winding over lovers’ hips, tousled hair draped over picnic blankets, the sleepy faces of babies nestling in their parents’ arms. If she could get some outstanding shots this afternoon, she just might complete Art in Motion, the title of her current project.

  After an hour of shooting, she stopped to admire the pale stripes in the sky. A pair of distant planes crossed, attempting to erase each other’s lines. Sylvie’s hand went to her belly. Like most Saturday afternoons, the time went too fast. She was always so absorbed and, before she knew it, she had shot her five rolls of film. Obeying her rumbling stomach, she pedaled straight toward the Greek restaurant.

  Familiar aromas greeted Sylvie as she entered Dionysos Taverna, filling her nostrils with the savory aroma of home. Before she could recognize the spices in the air, Vassilios—cradling four plates loaded with steaming food—waltzed over and planted a kiss on her cheek. Sylvie checked out the sumptuous dishes until her eyes landed on a youthful Greek woman sitting on a stool.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Sylvie exclaimed in Greek as she sauntered to the bar. The woman looked up from her glass of retsina and intercepted Sylvie’s friendly wink. She’s sure looking good, thought Sylvie, admiring the way the woman’s wheat-colored cashmere sweater set off her dark golden skin. Sylvie’s eyes drifted over the tight, white jeans on the stool. As usual, the fabric molded its owner’s body magnificently.

  “Thought I’d drop by to see how you’re doing. It’s been ages,” said the woman, nudging Sylvie’s arm. As Sylvie kissed her olive cheeks, she inhaled the distinctive scent of lavender soap and fresh flowers. She murmured in Greek, “I’m so glad you did. I’ve really missed you, Aphrodite.”

  The two mademoiselles lost no time catching up with each other’s news. As usual, Sylvie paid no attention to the male eyes fixed in her direction. Between sentences, she took an occasional bite from her mezé and a sip of retsina. At one point, the women laughed so hard, they had to grasp each other to keep from falling off their stools. Tears came to their eyes as they brought up the same quirky stories from their childhood in Santorini.

  Vassilios—juggling plates and carafes of wine—joined them when he had a spare moment. As soon as Sylvie had polished off just enough retsina, he wrapped his arm around her neck and, before she could protest, seized her camera.

  “Smile, you gorgeous goddesses,” he said. Sylvie’s arm was around Aphrodite’s waist, while Aphrodite’s arm was draped over Sylvie’s shoulder.

  “What the?” said Sylvie, startled. But before she could protest, he snapped the shutter, capturing the two women gazing with pleasure into each other’s gleaming Mediterranean eyes.

  *****

  Hélène stared at the lavish window display for five full minutes. The shop was so elegant and so unbearably expensive, she had never had the courage to go in—until now. Each time she had approached the door, a price tag had caught her eye, sending a danger signal—freezing her foot in midair. Pricey petals indeed. She knew only too well what would happen.

  If I even brought home one miserable leaf from this exclusive flower boutique, he’d massacre me and use the flowers for my funeral. She gulped at the thought of Marc ripping apart her purchases and flinging their contents—petal by petal—over the fresh soil of her grave.

  If he were to shed a tear, it would be for the funeral expenses, not her.

  Instead of lingering on that grisly thought, Hélène pushed open the door. Once inside, the intricate floral aromas calmed her mind while stimulating her senses. As she tiptoed around gold, bronze, silver, and crystal vases, she caressed the distinct blossoms, examining the hues of their petals, ingesting their unique scents.

  Like Alice in Wonderland, Hélène was lost in a marvelous world of fantasy. I must select the very best ones, she decided. Whenever she approached a vase, she snatched a stem. If it didn’t smell heavenly, she uttered, “Humph!” and moved on to the next variety. She soon emerged from the boutique with a gigantic bouquet bursting with three dozen precious flowers. Beaming, she floated down the sidewalk with her bouquet and walked straight into a…

  “Mince, pardonnez-moi!” she apologized with a friendly wave to the tree.

  Hastily crossing the street, she entered a chic boutique draped with a pink banner: “All Articles 50% Off.”

  Hélène stood inside, pondering the worn buckles on her boots. Just as she was about to sneak away, three elegant, constipated-looking salesclerks in pointy heels blocked her exit. In unison, they pinched their rouge lips, staring at her through their designer glasses—from the cranberry tips of her hair to the gummy soles of her boots.

  Their smirks made Hélène cringe. Show time! Under their scrutinizing eyes, she dropped her fancy bouquet and raced around the shop, ransacking the place. She plucked designer suits, sailor outfits, and sexy dresses—all that fed her fancy—from the priciest racks. The flabbergasted clerks kept clear of Hélène’s path, lest she—in her ungracious haste—flatten them to the floor, trip over their spikes, or rip out their faux diamond earrings with a hanger.

  At last, arms brimming with silky garments, Hélène sauntered out of a stall. Get a load of this. Winking at the witches, she waltzed to the cash register, trailing flamboyant fabrics in her wake. She burst out of the boutique with her bouquet and multiple bulky packages, fleeing the snobby salesclerks huddled at the door, fluttering their gloved fingers at her. The tallest cast out a squeaky “Merci, Madame. Come back to visit us soon!” A gust of glove-smothered, lip-stifling giggles ensued.

  I’d love to reply with something nasty, Hélène mused as she piled her purchases onto her bike. But why bother?

  Halfway home, she passed a tourist bus. Clutching her precious flowers to her chest, she waved at its overseas passengers and let out a triumphant war whoop.

  *****

  “On the house.” Vassilios plopped another huge carafe of retsina on the counter.

  “Ah non, I can’t. I’m driving.” Sylvie shook her head.

  “You came by bike, Syl.” Vassilios topped off her glass.

  “Actually, I was going to swim a few laps. Then I have to develop these.” She tapped her camera.

  “What an exhilarating Saturday night, little cousin. It’s time you take a few lessons in romanti—”

  “Leave her alone,” interjected Aphrodite. Then she softened her voice. “Honey, what happened to—”

  Sylvie frowned. “Let’s not even go there.”

  “But at least she—”

  “Was a tyrant.” Sylvie took a deep swig of retsina.

  Vassilios put his arm around her shoulder. “Come on, she wasn’t that bad. Sure, she wasn’t as sweet as you, hon. Nobody i
s.”

  Muffled ringing sounds erupted from Sylvie’s backpack.

  “Speak of the devil,” continued Vassilios. Before Sylvie could stop him, he fished her cell phone out of the front pocket. “Here.”

  Sylvie glanced at the number. “Perfect timing, Lydia. Back you go…” Before she could stuff it in her backpack, Vassilios grabbed the phone.

  “Sylvie’s secretary speaking,” he gushed into the receiver. “Lydia, is that you? Of course, darling. She’s right here.” He winked at Sylvie and passed her the phone.

  “Allô? Non, that was Vassilios. From Dionysos Taverna, the Greek—Oui, the restaurant. Non, non. The waiter.” Blood rushed to Sylvie’s cheeks. She glared at Vassilios. “Anyway, never mind. What did you…What? My place? Tonight?” Sylvie’s back stiffened. She shook her head. No way. No bloody way. “Non, that’s impossible. I have to—”

  Vassilios grabbed the phone. “Lydia? It’s Vassilios. She’d love to.”

  Sylvie scrambled over the hairy waiter to retrieve her phone. Before she could stop him, he added, “Super, I’ll tell her. You two have a delightful evening,” and hung up. Smirking, he handed Sylvie the phone. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Sylvie’s nostrils flared. “I can’t believe you just—”

  “Honey, next time, try to sound a bit more enthusiastic.” Vassilios wiped a stray hair from Sylvie’s chocolate eyes. “You don’t want to give the wrong impression, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I can’t believe you just did that, Vassilios,” Sylvie said coldly.

  Aphrodite nodded. “I’d be pretty upset if I were you, Syl.”

  “Of all the rotten tricks, you—”

  “What’s done is done, my sweet cousin.” Crossing his muscular arms, the waiter faced her smugly. “You’ve got exactly one hour to get home, throw on some sexy clothes, and whip up a batch of your knockout ouzo cocktails.”

  “But I was going swim—”

  “Syl, your laps can wait.” Vassilios flashed the women his sexiest macho smile. “Besides, I thought you liked cross-training.”

  When Aphrodite shot him a quizzical look, he placed his hand on her thigh. “Just another kind of workout, my dear,” he explained with a wink.

  “You’re so wicked, Vassilios,” said Sylvie, concealing a nervous chortle. Before she could protest any further, he bumped her off her stool and marched her out the door.

  As she was biking away, she heard a loud, “Wait!”

  Out of breath, Vassilios thrust her camera at her. “You might need this!” he added with a naughty glimmer in his eye.

  *****

  Up to her ears in packages, Hélène fumbled with the key to open the front door. As soon as she entered the house, something fuzzy rubbed against her ankles. Then the purring began.

  “Shh, bébé. We need to be quiet right now.” Setting her purchases down, she poked her head into the living room, where a soccer match was blaring from the TV. Socked feet were protruding from the sofa. Hélène sneaked a peek over the top. There sat Marc in his latest Adidas sportswear, fast asleep, clutching a can of beer to his chest.

  He’d never treat a baby as well as his booze, she thought, watching the can rise and fall with each nasally induced breath. Sighing, she tiptoed around the sofa. Some things never change.

  She started to rescue the tipping beer can but stopped her fingers midair. Her nostrils whiffed a mixture of stale sweat and suds from a musty brewery. The stench was so offensive it nearly propelled her from the room.

  What a pig! Hélène recoiled from her husband, plugging her nose. She switched off the TV, grabbed her bags, and escaped up the stairs, with Chaussette in tow.

  Safe in her bedroom, she stuffed her purchases into her closet, except the bouquet and a small black shopping bag. “Come on, bébé, it’s show time.” She raced toward the bathroom. Chaussette, recognizing the curtain call, jumped on the counter for a first-row seat. The bathroom’s tiles soothed the soles of Hélène’s overheated feet. Her toes curled in delight as she set her sumptuous bouquet on the counter. Chaussette promptly licked a yellow petal.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.” Hélène swept her locks with a pink brush. Then she dabbed on face powder, topping it off with pink lipstick, hairstyling gel, and a spray of perfume. Her eyes were gleaming as she reached into the elegant shopping bag. Counting to three, she pulled out the precious garment. Its black silkiness flowed through her fingers like smooth lava. She nestled the delicate fabric against her face. Délicieux. Like a forbidden fruit.

  Peeling off her old clothes—like a banana shedding its skin—she turned to face the mirror. Except for her white cotton underwear, she was nude. Ever so gently, she ran her fingers over her thighs. Much firmer. She smiled inwardly. All that biking, swimming, and dieting seems to be working. Taking a deep breath, as if plunging underwater, she resurfaced in a sexy black dress. Hélène gasped. Another woman was staring back at her.

  Her hand went to her mouth. So did the woman’s. She crinkled her nose. So did the woman.

  The new dress was a bit tight, revealing shapes that Hélène, only weeks before, could never have dreamed of. As she inspected her curvy hips, she felt so light, so sexy…

  Her imagination took over. Grabbing her toothbrush, she whispered, “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all for tonight. Thank you for coming to Broadway!” She pursed her cherry lips in mock humbleness. “It’s been such a gratifying role—dutiful housewife transformed into a sexy bombshell…In a matter of seconds!”

  The blond woman in the mirror gushed with pleasure. Her cheeks turned rosy pink as she clutched her bouquet of flowers, bowing deeply to the audience, each time revealing a more succulent view of her ample neckline.

  Hélène’s heart was racing under her new dress. After a discreet pause, the fans became ecstatic. Chaussette, purring loudly, thumped her tail on the counter in applause.

  “I’m off to the gym…I’ll be back for dinner!” Marc’s brusque voice traveled up the staircase, hitting Hélène like a water balloon in the face. Her thoughts skidded back to earth. Instead of luscious bouquets and extraordinary Broadway reviews, her thoughts flashed back to the sweaty odors emanating from her husband’s sportswear.

  She scratched her head. “Wait!” she hollered. “Didn’t you already go to the gym?” No reply. She tried again, louder: “Marc! Can’t you hear me? I said—”

  A door slammed. “Never mind,” she muttered, shrugging. “Maybe the workout will get rid of some of that tension of his…”

  The woman in the mirror shrugged back, but this time, with a frown. Tension?

  Hélène looked at her ample breasts in her new, sexy dress. Could it be sexual tension? The idea made her nipples harden. She felt the skin tingling on her back. Non, that’s ridiculous. The woman in the mirror licked her lips provocatively.

  Feeling her blood rising, Hélène clenched her fists. I’m the one who’s ridiculous. Get me out of this before I tear it to pieces! Forcing the delicate dress over her head, she felt a snag.

  Hélène pulled harder. There was a loud, ripping sound. Freed from the silky garment, she balled it up like a wad of used Kleenex and stuffed it into a bathroom drawer.

  *****

  Sylvie’s mind was racing as she sped toward her apartment. While waiting at a traffic light, her thoughts went back to Lydia. Under her sweatshirt, she felt a familiar twitch. She glanced at her arms. Goose bumps. Non, non, non…I’m not letting her get to me this time.

  Ahead were two teenage girls with their arms linked. As they skipped down the sidewalk, they were pinching each other, laughing hysterically. She observed the pair as she rode by.

  No wonder we broke up. We never even enjoyed each other’s company. She felt a bitter taste in her mouth. So who am I trying to kid? We’re not “just friends”…

  “We’re enemies!” she hissed as a surge of adrenaline pushed her feet hard on the pedals. Drops of sweat streamed from her face as she climbed the final hill.

  Twenty mi
nutes later, Goldie rubbed her whiskers against her mistress’s fuzzy slippers. Standing at the kitchen sink, Sylvie peered at her honey-colored cat. “Désolée, ma puce. I’ve been ignoring you.” She reached down to caress her pet, whose glistening eyes begged affection. “You must be starving. Maman got you something tasty at the market today. A nice, fresh piece of sushi. They took the seaweed off, just for you.”

  Sylvie unwrapped a generous portion of raw fish and plopped it in Goldie’s dish. “So I spoil you a bit. Why not? You deserve it, ma petite…” Her voice trailed off as the cat’s tiny head bobbed. Intense licking noises ensued. “Guess you don’t need chopsticks, eh, bébé?”

  Within minutes, Sylvie was humming to the Greek music blaring in her living room. I shouldn’t be in such a good mood, she decided. Not tonight. The thought of Lydia’s impending arrival put a quick halt to her humming. She extracted more vegetables from her backpack. The carrots smelled like sweet dirt. She waved them in the air like a policewoman directing traffic, then tossed them in the sink.

  Grabbing a pair of scissors, she picked up her bouquet of yellow marigolds, trimmed their stems, and plopped them into a water-filled vase. “Drink up, it’s on the house.”

  Next, after washing a bagful of vegetables, she dropped the scrubber, stuffed her hands in her apron, and leaned against the sink. “Where do you think Hélène was today, Goldie?” she asked her pet, who was busy scraping bits of sushi off her whiskers with a paw.

  “C’est bizarre. The florist said she didn’t come by. But it’s Saturday…” Despite the bits of sushi dangling from Goldie’s face, she snatched up her cat. Ignoring the fishy odor, she nuzzled close and whispered into her tiny ear, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s invite Hélène over for dinner sometime.”