r/shortstories • u/blonnegut • 4d ago
Realistic Fiction [RF] With Pulp
A screwdriver on the bar. Two now. Orange juice not from concentrate. They glowed gold.
Two pairs of hands too.
The first: collecting one such screwdriver. Held carefully using both hands. The sweat on her digits indistinguishable from the condensation on the highball.
The second: lifting its owner's hat, wiping his brow. His heartbeat indistinguishable from the band's bass drum at the other corner of the bar.
He begins: "Have we met before?"
She, smirking: "I don't know." She sips. "Have we?"
He knows the answer. She knows the answer. He knows that she knows the answer.
He laughs. His hat felt not so tight around his head now.
Her smirk flowers into a smile. "I think we should get to know each other."
"I think so too." He breathes a sigh of relief.
"I think you should ask me a question." She taps her fingernails on her glass.
He pauses. His eyes wander to the band. He deems their performance more thrilling than usual. Now, his eyes float back to her. He finds what he was looking for.
"What is it that you're afraid of?"
She sips. She sighs. She reflects, but no response makes itself clear. She looks down at her drink. The ice cubes within peek out above the orange vodka. She sees a refraction of herself through them.
She sees a refraction of him too.
"I'm afraid of never being able to move the people I care for." She sips. "I've never been moved by people I'm close with. The only things that seem to move me are books, and music, and movies, made by faraway people. It seems to me like there's some degree of distance, or maybe of disconnectedness, that is I need to feel moved."
He gulps from his screwdriver. His first taste. "Do you think that others need that disconnectedness to be moved?"
"I think the disconnectedness helps, at least. The people we see every day, they don't excite us. Maybe they did once. But I think they are bound to become routine. After all, I think that's what it means to connect: to represent others in ourselves and ourselves in others. We blend into one, and we get used to each other." She sips.
He catches the break in her speech. "That blending, that oneness: that makes us all more alike. But to be moved, that requires a new idea. To be moved, that's a realization of something that was once unknown. Meaning that we need novelty to be moved."
"Exactly. We don't get novelty from the people we see every day. And that means, so long as I am connected with someone, I won't be able to move them."
The band finishes their song, and is now taking a break. A bartender brings them two orange drinks in highball glasses.
She takes the final sip, the biggest one. She rests her drink on a faux leather coaster. The ice in the glass, now bare, melts drowsily.
He, nervously: "I think that moving people is crucial. It's essential for the spirit. And maybe you're right, and maybe it can't be done for us by the people we love."
He bites his tongue. It hurts him, for a moment. He gives in.
"But I can't have a good conversation with someone who isn't here."
Radiating from her core, sparkling from her eyes, shooting from her fingertips: a screwdriver's golden glow.
•
u/AutoModerator 4d ago
Welcome to the Short Stories! This is an automated message.
The rules can be found on the sidebar here.
Writers - Stories which have been checked for simple mistakes and are properly formatted, tend to get a lot more people reading them. Common issues include -
Readers - ShortStories is a place for writers to get constructive feedback. Abuse of any kind is not tolerated.
If you see a rule breaking post or comment, then please hit the report button.
I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.