Anne's Collection #1: Five Stories

by Anne Eton

  “Hmm,” Margaret said, pretending to think. “What do you suggest?”

  “Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m vegan.”

  “Yeow. One of those, huh?” Catching herself, Margaret added quickly: “I’m just kidding.”

  “Better be, lady.” Ricarda did her best Price-Is-Right-hand-flutter-pose over her cart. “The lobster comes with a bisque soup. I’ve heard only good things.”

  “Deal.”

  Ricarda laid the meal tray on top of Margaret’s table with great care, adjusting it by millimeters. Then she placed a napkin on the circular drink setting and left a cup of wine on top of it.

  “You must think I’m a drinker,” Margaret said.

  “I won’t tell,” Ricarda answered. She smiled, lifted a finger to her lips in a shhh gesture, and turned to the next person.

  As the flight progressed, most of the first class passengers lowered the window shades to block out the sun so that they could sleep.

  Ricarda returned. The dark cabin was silent except for the engines’ hum and the low hiss of the air circulation system.

  “Hi,” Ricarda whispered. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  Margaret lowered her iPad and smiled. “I don’t like the glare of the overhead light on the screen. It’s backlit, anyway, so I don’t need it. By the way, why are we whispering?”

  “Because people are sleee-ping,” Ricarda answered in a little-girl whisper, gesturing around her and miming a sleeping child.

  “Right. Duh,” Margaret said in a low voice.

  “Here.” She handed Margaret another cup of amber liquid.

  Margaret smiled. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “You look like you could use a drink. You seem stressed.”

  “Yeah,” Margaret whispered. “But, honestly, I was born stressed.”

  They talked. Margaret was a consultant for a lobbying firm in Washington, D.C. The firm specialized in gaming issues. Margaret flew regularly to American-owned casinos in Macao to help ensure that their operations were in compliance with U.S. law, and to hear from the casino owners which laws were the highest priorities to change or modify.

  “Sounds thrilling,” Ricarda deadpanned.

  “Hey.”

  “Aren’t you bored out of your mind?”

  Margaret shrugged. “I love rules, laws, all the fine print. I recently read the FAA regulations, just for fun, for God’s sake.”

  “Wow. I thought you were kidding, earlier.”

  “Nope.” Margaret raised her iPad again. “Lexis-Nexis. It’s how we spend our free time.”

  “You need help.”

  Margaret laughed. “I enjoy my work. I love it, no kidding. I have a joint M.B.A.-J.D. and it’s perfect for this kind of stuff. Besides, I get paid a boatload of money.”

  “What about a social life?”

  Margaret sighed. She reclined her seat and lay back in a relaxed position. Sipping tequila in the dim light, she glanced around her. “That’s the rub,” she said. “My work is my life. I joke at the office that I married my job, so they should at least give me a ring. And they actually did, last year. A big joke plastic diamond ring.”

  “Wow.” Ricarda made a repulsed face.

  “Hey, they gave it to me with my Christmas bonus. After seeing that number, nothing could have offended me.”

  “If you’re happy, that’s what matters.”

  “So how about you?” Margaret asked, changing the subject.

  “I always wanted to travel, so here I am. I get nice long breaks between hops, I get to choose my routes, and I get to sketch stuff in exotic locales.”

  “Sketch stuff?”

  “I’m a sketch artist,” Ricarda said. “Pencil and charcoal, mostly. Nothing fancy. I sketch subjects from life.”

  “That’s awesome. I never was artistic.”

  “Last week I sketched the sun as it came up over Paris. I was on the roof of a building and I got the Eiffel Tower and everything.”

  Margaret’s expression turned respectful. “That’s so great. It must be wonderful to just… do something like that.”

  “You could, too.” Ricarda laughed softly in the darkened cabin. “Only you could rent a glass-floor cabana over an ocean bay, have an artist come give you lessons, and have margaritas and listen to waves while you drew.”

  Margaret laughed also. “Well, I’d have to find the time, first. I haven’t had a vacation in I don’t know when.”

  “That’s a real shame. You could rock a bikini.” Ricarda nodded down at Margaret’s curvy body.

  Margaret grinned, embarrassed. “I haven’t worn a bikini since, God, I don’t know. College?”

  “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it.”

  “Ferris Bueller.”

  “Yes!” Ricarda smiled, and her face lit up. “I love that movie.”

  “Me, too.”

  Ricarda kept smiling as her eyes lowered again to take in Margaret’s hourglass form. “Hey. I’d like to show you that Paris sketch I made.”

  “I’d love to see it. Do you have it here?”

  “No, but what I can do is email you a link. I have some of my stuff up on the web.”

  They exchanged emails, writing on napkins.

  “By the way,” Ricarda said as she slipped Margaret’s napkin into a pocket. “Even if you fly the night flight again, you probably won’t see me. I’m transferring out of the Macau route next month.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  Ricarda made a face. “The town’s just, like, all money and fake and gross. It’s like Vegas, only with even less class.”

  “Macao did six hundred billion dollars last year. That’s like a year’s cash out of all the ATMs in the United States.”

  “That’s nice, for some. I’d just rather sketch a river or a beautiful city.” Ricarda grinned. “Anyway. We’ll start our approach for landing soon.”

  Margaret raised her watch. “Jeez. That was fast.”

  “I know. Saturday’s gone already.”

  “Time flies with good company.”

  “Enjoy Macau.”

  “Thanks. At least, as an ex-Portuguese colony, I’m able to attend Mass pretty much anywhere on a Sunday,” Margaret said.

  “A Catholic girl.”

  “Very.”

  “But you don’t have any sins to confess.”

  Margaret gave Ricarda a slow, shrewd smile. “Nice try.”

  “Darn. I did try.”

  “Send me that link. I want to see your art.”

  “You bet. Nice meeting you.”

  “Same here.”

  They smiled at each other, and Ricarda departed. A bing pealed overhead, and the fasten-seatbelt sign illuminated over the chairs. Margaret raised her seat to the upright position and bucked her seatbelt.

  When Margaret checked her email in the hotel that night, she read a message from Ricarda: Hey! Is this a real email account? lol Here’s the link for that sketch, it’s nothing great but anyway hope you had a good day and are living the good life (but I don’t think I need to hope for that ha).

  The link took Margaret’s browser to a pencil drawing of Paris. The buildings showed remarkable detail, down to individual girders in the Eiffel Tower. The rising sun had created shadows that Ricarda had captured with great skill.

  Margaret wrote back immediately: Hey back! Wow, you are so talented (have you ever shown in a gallery?). How long did that sketch take you? I’m sincerely impressed. Margaret asked Ricarda more about her art, and finally realized that she had written almost two pages. She then glanced at the time and concluded her email with Well, it’s late and hope you don’t mind the long missive, don’t worry about matching the length of my long rambling paragraphs, I just get going (I’m kind of intense, in case you haven’t guessed) and blah blah, see, I’m doing it again. Okay, g’night!

  Over the next month, Margaret and Ricarda exchanged emails at least once a day. They also exchanged phone numbers, bu
t Ricarda’s schedule and changing time zones made phone conversations impractical. Ricarda directed Margaret to sets of drawings that she had posted on the web, usually adding a disclaimer such as Don’t expect anything great, but you asked, so, here’s some more…

  As their acquaintance deepened, Margaret began confiding personal things. I wish I could show you some kind of art or creation I’ve done, she said in one late-night email, but that’s really not my skill set. I’ve never hung out with artists, or any kind of creative people, actually when you get down to it I’m sort of a loner. I’ve many colleagues but few friends. Isn’t that sad??!!!!

  Yeah right, Ricarda replied, hotties like you are always lonely lol. Come on, I bet you were always fighting the boys off with a stick!

  I wish, Margaret wrote back. I kind of intimidate men, I always have. I’ve tried so hard not to but they get scared when the girl with the top grades/top salary/better job steps into the room, or bar, whatever! Anyway, send me more sketches!

  A day passed with no response from Ricarda. Then: Hey Margaret! Sorry, my flight was delayed and things were nutty. So, “more sketches” you say… How about if I send you a sketch of you? Don’t worry, I won’t put it on the interwebs, you won’t have any of your friends coming up to you and saying Hey I know you look like a model but I didn’t know you actually are a model lol. :)

  Margaret blinked as she read it. Then she clicked “Reply” and typed: Okay, sure! Not a problem re: posting it, if you want, I don’t think my colleagues surf art websites lol but yeah if you can remember what I look like then why not!

  The following day, Margaret received an email from Ricarda with an attachment. Margaret downloaded the attachment and opened it. A pencil sketch showed Margaret reclined in her seat on the Macao flight, with the cup of tequila in her hand. Her face wore a sexy, seductive grin. Ricarda had drawn Margaret’s white button-down shirt with great care, showing a jagged ridge between her big breasts where the fabric strained the buttons.

  After staring for a few minutes, Margaret emailed: That is amazing! How can you do that from memory? I think you made me waaaaaaay sexier than I am in real life but who’s complaining! I just wish I could forward it to my mom (somehow I don’t appear like the picture of virtue, lol). :)

  Ricarda replied within minutes. Hey sexy! I’m really glad you like the sketch, and in answer to your protest, if anything I toned down your sexy self, ha. Come on, a tall hourglass woman with a flat stomach, you’re what every model wants to be. All that, and brains too… How’d you win the genetic lottery?

  You’re making me blush, Margaret answered, and added a smiley face.

  Over the next few days, their emails grew longer and longer. Margaret asked many questions about flight attendants (and apologized for asking so many questions). In short order, she learned among other things that

  1. Flight attendants hated serving Diet Coke more than any other drink, because for some reason it fizzed more at 35,000 feet than any other soda, slowing down cart service;

  2. Flight attendants were paid by the hour, and only when the plane doors were shut—so, when passengers were boarding and exiting, the attendants were working “for free”;

  3. Most attendants earned around $18,000 per year;

  4. Despite the low pay, the ratio of job openings to job applicants was about ten to one. Almost all members were college graduates. Ricarda said that she knew former doctors and lawyers who had switched careers to become flight attendants. The life was fun, the travel was wonderful, and camaraderie was high.

  Margaret admitted in one late-night email that you have made me sort of question all the values I’ve grown up with. I think I’ve accepted certain basic principles without thinking about them, principles like “always work as hard as you can to earn the most money possible,” things like that. Your life sounds so great, I’m almost tempted to become a flight attendant myself!

  Ricarda replied, But then who would fight for the casinos?

  Margaret shot back, Hey, casinos create a lot of air travel!

  A week later, Ricarda added a casual postscript to an email: I wonder if you’d like to see some of my art that’s, well, not rated PG. It’s a little racy, and all fantasy (not taken from real life, except for one self-portrait!). I don’t know how you feel about such stuff, but if it’s not your thing, no worries.

  Margaret replied, Hmm, you’re being very mysterious. My better instincts say I should decline, but of course curiosity wins out every time. And I can’t wait to see if this has anything to do with Star Trek or Star Wars, I figured you were a secret Trekkie (planes are the closest things to space ships!).

  The next evening, Margaret was checking her email in her home office when she saw that Ricarda had written back: Okay, you asked for it. I’m on a site called Deviantart, it’s where a lot of artists post their work (and I’m NOT a Trekkie or whatever, thanks anyway!). She gave Margaret her Deviantart handle and said that Margaret would have to sign up for a free account to see the portfolio, but that the process was quick and easy.

  Ricarda had also attached another email attachment, adding: P.S., since you never take a vacation, here’s the next best thing. Margaret downloaded and opened the file.

  Her mouth opened slightly as she saw herself in a bikini, standing in the ocean on a beautiful deserted beach. The Margaret in the sketch was looking over her shoulder at the artist with a happy, playful grin. The water was halfway up her butt, and her twisting motion emphasized her curves. She looked sexy but innocent, an All-American girl at play.

  Margaret stared at the drawing on her screen. Then she clicked “Print” and placed the printout in the middle of her desk. Toggling back to her web browser, she quickly found the Deviantart site and signed up for an account. Typing Ricarda’s handle into the Search box, she found a portfolio.

  There were three folders: “Pinups,” “Cheesecake,” and “Adults Only.” Margaret saw that Ricarda’s work had hundreds of followers.

  Clicking on the first folder, Margaret saw scans of Ricarda’s pencil and charcoal sketches. A few were in pastel colors. They all showed World-War-Two-style pinup girls, leaning against planes and jeeps. Many were smiling and saluting. They wore skimpy shorts and tight T-shirts, their hair styled in the fashions of the era. All the women were very curvy.

  Clicking back, Margaret opened the “Cheesecake” folder. The women were all as curvy as before, but in mischievous or oops-did-I-do-that poses. One brunette wore nothing but a gunslinger’s belt and holsters, pointing a revolver at the viewer and winking. Another busty girl looked down at a floor fan that had blown her short skirt up over her waist, exposing her bare bottom. “Magnificent!” read one comment under the sketch. “She needs cooling, she’s hot!” said a second comment below it.

  Margaret gaped. After a moment, she clicked through all the pictures before returning to the portfolio home. She hesitated, then double-clicked on the “Adults Only” folder.

  The folder held lesbian erotic art. Women kissed on couches, beds, and standing up, in various states of undress. All the women were as curvy as those in the previous two folders. Margaret stared transfixed at a portrait of a smiling naked voluptuous woman lying on a bear rug in front of a fireplace, watching her lover crawl to her. But Margaret stared longest at a drawing of one woman, alone. She was not curvy. She had reclined her slim athletic body on a couch, cocking her head to challenge the viewer with a smile. The woman had raised her knee, and even though the pencil sketch was black and white, it was clear that her pubic hair was as blonde as her short bob haircut. It was Ricarda.

  Margaret suddenly closed her browser and turned off her computer. She quickly brushed her teeth and went to bed.

  The following evening, Margaret entered her home office again. She had had a long day at work. Wearily, she slid a strap off her shoulder. A big leather Coach bag of papers and folders crashed to the floor.

  Slumping in her chair, Margaret glanced at the printout in the middle of her desk. She reac
hed for it and held it up. The Margaret in the beach drawing—happy, alive, free—looked exactly the opposite from how she felt.

  She tossed the paper back onto the desk with an annoyed flip of her wrist, and rubbed her eyes. Finally, she turned on her computer and accessed her email.

  Hey girl, read a message from Ricarda. So, call me paranoid, but I haven’t heard back from you… Did my stuff revolt/scare/offend you?

  Margaret clicked “Reply,” and typed only, Wow. Then she clicked “Send.”

  A few minutes later, her phone rang.

  “That bad, huh?” Ricarda’s voice said.

  “Where are you?” Margaret asked.

  “Somewhere over the South China Sea.”

  “Sounds like an expensive call.”

  “You have no idea. Hey, talk to me.”

  Margaret rubbed her eyes again. “Ricarda, I… I’m just not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  Margaret’s tone descended to the icy depths that she had used in many a contract dispute. “I think you know exactly like what.”

  “Look.” Ricarda paused, then sighed. “I was trying to share something with you. I asked you first. I warned you it was racy. What did you expect?”

  “Ricarda, those women you draw are all tall and curvy. LIKE ME. I see now exactly what was going on, from the beginning—you saw a human Barbie doll, someone who looked exactly like the girls you draw in your sex pictures, and you said to yourself, ‘Hey, it’s Christmas!’”

  Ricarda said nothing.

  “I thought you liked me, as a friend,” Margaret continued. Her voice grew strained, and she tried to keep from choking on her words. “I thought this was about something else. I told you I don’t have many friends. It made me, you know, happy to think there was someone who just liked me for me…”

  “I do like you for you.”

  “No. You like the, the body, the whatever fetish thing that turns you on.”

  “Can I say something, now?” Ricarda asked in a soft voice.

  Margaret closed her eyes and exhaled. “What?”

  “I really like you. I like all of you. I like your intensity, your intelligence—you burn like a Coleman lamp, turned all the way up, you know? So bright and intense you can’t even look at it.”