La Femme

by Storm Constantine

  “Who are you?” She smiled and tilted her head as she waited.

  “Kobe.”

  “Unusual name.”

  He shrugged and took a sip of his drink; it was almost finished.

  Marilyn took the moment to take him in. The thunder of the fight was no more than background noise now. He had long antlers, pointed at the tips and bare of scratches, smooth as piano enamel. His hair was fluffy, black and the whiff of scent she got was citrusy. Broad shoulders and chest, his shirt creased over his stomach, suggesting tight abs.

  Kobe smiled and she looked up, drawn to the perfect white teeth and flash of green eyes which promised grass, earth and tumbles. The undergrowth. He laughed, soft, a whisper under the flying bone and growls. Something softer.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You were just…enjoying.” He laughed again, slow. His eyes watched hers.

  She swallowed and smoothed her skirt, flicked a hair away.

  “Well, I’m Marilyn.”

  Kobe nodded and rose to his feet. “You coming?”

  She didn’t know where he was going but Marilyn stood too, forgetting her nuts and the fight as she followed him out the door.

  *

  Yellow light peeked behind Marilyn’s eyelids. She opened them to stare up at a strange ceiling and turned to see an empty bed, covers hollowed and chill from his departure. She sat up. The soft satin touched her body in a whisper as it fell; she smiled.

  Sweet citrus and the cackle of oil echoed down the hall, so she found her day-old clothes and followed the smell over cold tiles to the breakfast table. Her toes tingled.

  “Hey, sunshine.”

  Marilyn laughed, hugging her pimpled arms, and hopped up onto a stool. “Breakfast? So kind.”

  Kobe passed her a plate, complete with two pancakes, and pointed to the lemon juice and sugar on the table.

  “Help yourself.”

  He watched as she ate, rolling up the pancakes one by one and swallowing them an inch at a time with her hands as a guide. The lemon-sugar mix glistened in the sun.

  “Interesting.”

  She snorted and pointed to the other stool.

  “Aren’t you going to eat too?”

  He shook his head. “Already ate.”

  “Okay.” She took her last bite and walked over to him. “Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve got plans with the girls today. Shopping trip! Need to feed Rupert, too. You mind?”

  Kobe shook his head and opened an arm for a hug. “No problem. I’ll catch you later. Got your number, remember?”

  “Great! I’ll just grab my shoes.”

  “Sure.” Kobe took her plate and put it in the sink with his own. “Later.”

  *

  Marilyn bought a new dress while she was out; backless and short. She changed into it at home once the girls had left and perfected the fit with little tugs.

  In the rush, she didn’t bother to measure out Rupert’s food. She used a cup to pile it into his bowl instead. Having locked him in the utility room, she applied fresh make-up and was ready, her pink lips perfumed gloss.

  She set the alarm and headed back to The King’s Arms, figuring she’d text Kobe once she settled.

  The bar was full and it took some time to get a drink, even with her cleavage. Once she had her wine, she scanned the room. It was a busy night and the pub was packed with smoke. Misted figures roved from bar to table and back. Local university girls littered the usual crowd. They stood out with their short, flattened hair and branded hoodies.

  That’s when she saw him. Kobe sat by the jukebox next to a redhead in a white, knee length skirt. The two were flirting, her legs crossing and uncrossing once a minute and his finger brushing her nose as they laughed.

  Marilyn’s eyes narrowed and then shut as she tossed back her drink. She knew what she’d do. No one fucked with her. Smiling, she placed her empty glass on the edge of the bar and left.

  *

  The next morning dawned grey and foggy. It was cold out but Marilyn put on the same black dress anyway, complete with heels and pinked lips. It had to be perfect. She texted Kobe, telling him to meet her at the pub, and clicked down the street.

  Greeting the bartender, she ordered and installed herself in the same booth she’d seen Kobe in the night before, by the jukebox. It seemed appropriate. There was a glass mug of ale on the coaster next to her, ready for him. The glass spun webbed rainbows over the table.

  He arrived fifteen minutes later wearing jeans, a shirt and a smile. Not too early. Not too keen. Relaxed, he weaved through the regulars with a few hellos and high fives as he made his way over.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He sat. “This for me?”

  Marilyn nodded and took a sip of her own drink. “Yeah. Got it ready for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” She smiled and placed a leg over his knees. A fingertip pressed a button on his shirt and toyed with it. “You had a good few days?”

  He nodded and stroked her cheek. She tried her best not to cringe.

  “Sure, been missing you though.”

  Turning her head, she snuggled into his hand before taking another sip. “Up to much?”

  “Not really. More pancakes, you know.” He laughed.

  “I bet.” She waited until he’d had a good half of his drink before she spoke again. “You want to get out of here?”

  Kobe grinned and stood up. He swayed a little. “Already? Sure, let’s go.”

  *

  Kobe was asleep within the hour. The pill had done the trick. Marilyn sat on his chest and pinched his cheek to check he was out cold. No reaction. His skin still rose and fell beneath her. The only sound in the room was his breathing and hers. Intimate. She laughed into his ear.

  “This won’t hurt but I sure hope you don’t get laid after.”

  She got off him and grabbed her purse, rooting around inside for the tool she’d added before heading to the pub. On finding it, she straddled him again and waited. He still hadn’t moved, let alone woken up. Great.

  Clenching the base of one antler, she got to work with the mini saw. The bone dusted onto his forehead and collected on his eyelashes like snow. He was beautiful really, she mused. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss onto his mouth and left a pink flush behind. She continued.

  The cut was ragged and uneven. It would be obvious he was shorn rather than shed and the thought made her grin. She blew at the dust to better see the cut and chopped through the last of the horn. The dust flew like glitter, bringing the scent of filed nails and stale alcohol; she scrunched up her nose and placed the shorn antler on the bed.

  Then she stared at the stump. It looked ridiculous next to the full antler, a midget or stunted dwarf half hidden by his hair. The outer layer under the antler-brown was almost white but the solid pulpy marrow within looked similar to papier-mâché or the whorls of a felled tree. And the felling was all her fault.

  Grinning, she sawed on the second horn, relishing each squeak; she didn’t want people to think the first was an accident. Kobe had to be de-manned.

  Once finished, she stood and dressed. She hid the saw in her bag and took the antlers to the door. Kobe still rested, both eyes peppered white and his features soft under the powder like a painted mask, lips reddened. The antler indents sat empty in the pillow, hollow. Perfection.

  Nodding, Marilyn shut the door and made her way home, his antlers under her coat with one arm as she pretended to be cold. No one stopped her.

  *

  Home, Marilyn petted Rupert, her giant fluffy Alsatian, and put the antlers on the kitchen counter. They knocked together like a door-knocker.

  “Sorry I took so long, buddy. But I’ve got something for you.”

  Opening a drawer, she took out a full sized saw and set to work, dividing the antlers into thirty centimetre pieces before placing each fragment in the dog’s cupboard.

  The last piece she left on the side while she poured a glass of wine and put on the TV.
Once her place was set up and favourite movie sorted, she gave the antler hunk to the dog and smiled: Rupert loved his gift. His tongue and teeth were on show, extricating the marrow with the satisfying, primitive sound of tooth grinding bone.

  *

  A good week later, Marilyn noticed Kobe in the corner of the pub. A couple of guys were poking his side and peering over his head at the stumps. She could hear their babble.

  “What happened to you, mate?”

  “Where’s the rest of ya?”

  Marilyn smiled into her glass and watched the show.

  “You shed early or summin’?”

  “Nah it’s a good month too early.”

  Kobe met her eyes across the bar. From that distance, they burned black like coal but he didn’t make a move toward her. He knew better, now.

  He turned to the guy nearest to him. “Let’s say I lost a bet.”

  The guy laughed and clinked glasses with his friend. “Fair few fillies too, huh? You ain’t getting laid till they grow back!”

  Marilyn finished her wine and pocketed her nuts. She passed by Kobe on her way to the door.

  “I had a great night, Kobe. Thanks, but don’t call me again.”

  Laughter, hoots and slapped backs followed her out the pub.

  The Honey Trap

  Ruth E.J. Booth

  “What the hell is that?”

  The apple looked awful. A piebald runt in red and yellow-green, with a sandpaper roughness around its bear-stub stalk. A bulge threatened one side of its thick-looking matte skin, squeezing creases into its squat sides. It sat on the table like an insult, a gnarled middle finger to the perfected #04B404 Foods Agency standard that reigned the international markets.

  Jack Becker – accredited independent collective operator, award-winning Growth Guru, author, cult TV personality – plucked up the fruit in one rubber-gloved hand.

  “I have never,” he said, “ever seen such a hideous-looking apple before. Truly.”

  Becker shook his head, and smiled.

  “What’s your secret, kid?”

  The kid shrugged, hands thrust in the pockets of a goodwill grey hoodie, and looked about the Faire. At tables stacked with bespoke preserves, and obscure small town delicacies crammed between avalanches of vegetables; rows haunted by drifts of discerning foodies and brand-stamped hipsters, sizing up each other’s loyalties. Becker’s own table was bare by comparison, but he was here as the borough’s resident Growth Guru, not head of the largest collective this side of the city.

  Still. Compared to the fans who usually showed up for his advice, this guy looked more like someone’s kid brother. Becker took another glance at the hooded face. Kid sister, rather.

  “Hey, Cole.” Becker leaned back and hollered at his warehouse manager, the guy with a better eye for varietals than anyone else he knew, buried behind crates of Becker’s latest Grower’s Guide. “You gotta see what we got here, man, seriously.”

  “Oh wow, I haven’t seen anything like this since the bees died out.”

  “I know, right? Do you know it?”

  Cole shook his head. “I woulda said it was a Calville Blanc, but the colouring’s all wrong, and the size, it’s all wrong.” He hesitated to touch the misshapen apple. “Nope. Where did she get this?” Becker shrugged. “Where did you get this?” Cole asked the kid this time, who clammed up and wouldn’t budge.

  Becker waved off his buddy.

  “So you grew this yourself?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Okay then.”

  Becker sat turning the apple in his hand. Maybe the kid was telling the truth. It certainly didn’t hurt to try and find out a little more.

  “Do you mind if I try a bit?”

  Taking the knife beside him, Becker carved an oblique slice off the apple, slid it off the blade and into his mouth. The crisp flesh tingled as it brushed his tongue, like the moment before a lightning strike, and Becker bit down.

  Juice billowed into every nook of his mouth – around his tongue, between his teeth – nectarous and sharp, and so alien-strong it was near unbearable. Becker almost choked as he forced himself to chew slow, to savour it.

  “That is incredibly sweet,” he managed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’ve never seen something so goddamn ugly in all my life, but compared to the agency standard? This just blows it out of the water. Excuse me.” Becker took a draught from the glass next to him, swilled and spat. “Okay, wow. That more than makes up for its size. Who would expect a runt like that to pack such a punch?”

  Becker caught the smear of juice gathering on his chin, set down the knife to reach for the fresh wipes.

  “So, you grew this yourself,” he said, as he folded the tissue away. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  The kid said nothing.

  “I mean, of course you’re using a custom blend of plant food here. Not the flat beer trick, everyone knows that’s a myth.” He paused for a reaction. Still nothing.

  Becker waited. With some of these fans, it took them a while to get an answer out, as if any talent they might have for the art see-sawed their ability to express themselves in words. She just needed a little time to get herself together.

  But the kid shook her head. Coy.

  “No? So… What? You want me to guess?”

  The kid nodded shyly.

  “Okay then, let me think…”

  Becker threw the kid a few stock questions as he examined the apple once more. The one that couldn’t have come from the self-pollinators normal people grew. That broke about a hundred international laws of sale. That a welfare kid couldn’t possibly be growing – not an heirloom, surely? Becker rocked the impossible apple between his hands. He could take all the guesses he liked. If you’d told Jack Becker that a kid was growing an apple like this – even if she was as old as he’d been when he’d started, he wouldn’t have believed you if you’d stuck it in front of him, carved off a piece, told him to bite… A drop of juice sluiced into his palm, and Becker struggled not to take the glove between his teeth and suck the nectar out of the folds there and then.

  Ruckus. Becker’s eyes snapped up to a nearby stall. The Bow Boys, broadcasting their latest exclusive, an heirloom find – a lonely, last-of-its-kind, only-for-most-chronically-trust-funded tree, dug up withering in some deserted Arizona backwater – across a clutch of toothpick-wielding rubberneckers.

  He didn’t have time for this. Becker clicked his tongue against his teeth, dislodging a piece of fruit in the back of his gum.

  “Well, you’ve got me,” said Becker, handing back the apple. “Well done.”

  The kid smiled and carefully wrapped the apple back in its supermarket bag.

  “What’s your name, by the way?” Becker asked.

  The kid said, “I have to go.”

  And Becker let her. He thanked her, shook her hand – and on the count of ten, followed the kid out of the community space and into the street.

  Outside, the summer crowd at The Temple bar spilled out between faux pear trees on the right-side pavement. To the left, a honeysucker pulled out of an alleyway, and a pair of cops wrestled some waster who’d missed the street composter by a few feet.

  Becker cursed his luck and headed back to the table.

  “Anything?”

  Cole shook his head and continued stacking guides. “She’s not a regular. No one’s seen her before. We don’t know anyone working on anything like that, in ours or any other collective. Assuming she’s online, she’s well hidden.”

  “Everyone’s online.” Becker stripped off the rubber glove with a wet smack and handed it to Cole. “Can we get the mem-sniffer on this one? Take the glass as well.” He elbowed aside a pile of books and dug it out. “See what you can find.”

  “Really that good, huh?”

  Cole paused, a recently cultivated tic of disapproval that Becker had learned would go away if he didn’t acknowledge it. They both knew who would break first.

  “All right then�
��”

  Becker shrugged off the tone. “You didn’t taste it. It was… indescribable. East side couldn’t come up with this with a million years and a batch of monkeys.”

  “Yet you have no clue where it comes from.”

  Becker dug a slice of skin out of his teeth and added it to the water. “Not yet.”

  *

  The bell was flat, and it took twenty minutes and another tenant going up to get Becker into the building.

  “Hello, Mrs Hoffman, is Danielle available, please?”

  A half-moon pair of glasses looked him up and down from behind the door chain.

  “Just a moment.”

  Becker never had cause to be in this neighbourhood. Here the tenement roofs and vacant lots were owned mostly by a revolving chain of pushers, fighting a winning battle against limited police resources and a losing one against the rising salt levels in the groundwater. For now, it was nothing to do with him. The growers kept to their patch, the pushers left them alone. It worked.

  The corridor was dark and smelt of too much disinfectant for concrete.

  “What are you doing here?”

  For someone so evasive, the kid was direct. Becker liked that. He flashed her a photo-op smile. “And hello to you too. Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you. About that apple you showed me.”

  Grey hood folded round her neck, Danielle Hoffman stared at him.

  Mrs Hoffman yelled, “Are you going to let your friend in, or are you going to keep him waiting out there?”

  The kid disappeared from view, and the door slid open.

  “Come in,” said Mrs Hoffman. “I’m sorry about my daughter. She forgets her manners sometimes. Would you like some coffee? Danielle, make your friend a cup of a coffee. Watch out for that machine, the power’s on the blink again. Do you take it black or white?”

  “Black, please, Mrs Hoffman.”

  Becker was gently herded between a beaten up sofa and a coffee table, as Mrs Hoffman filled in the blanks that a government sanitation truck registration and a hand-printed doorbell sticker couldn’t. The terrible drainage on the lower floors, how it aggravated her health complaints, how he shouldn’t take her child’s behaviour to mean anything more than her long nights Working for the Government –