Aspiring Writers Spring 2007 Edition
Short story - fiction - "The Circle of Congregation" by: Stan Stack
THE CIRCLE OF CONGREGATION
by: Stan Stack
The lounge chairs surrounded a round, glass coffee table. Ash-trays
stood elevated in between each chair. There were ten chairs, each
black, leather, and resembling the sort of thing rich politicians sink
into before switching on C-Span. Above the center table was a glass
chandelier that would occupy the collective attention of the hotel
guests during their brief stay in the vestibule. I, along with some
others, did not take cheap spectacle to the grandeur of rich
conversation and the vessel that carried it. The circle of chairs, the
table, the ash trays: that was why I frequented that lonely hotel.
I kicked my feet, sitting in my usual seat within the circle. In my one
hand was a glass of brandy, in my other, a cigarette held loosely over
the neighboring ash-tray—my thumb was flicking it ardently.
"Hello there," said a voice from behind the chair I had privately called
mine.
I shifted, crossed my legs, and looked up at a face that was already
smiling. "Good evening," I said warmly. The shape of a woman,
obstructed from my point of view, stood over me. Young, formally
dressed, and appropriately perfumed. Her lipstick was red, in
wonderful compliance with her black dress, which wore her breasts
soundly; her cleavage was prominent. My thumb flicked my cigarette
again, and I took a long drag, following her as she weaved into the
circle, took a seat across from me and crossed her legs.
"Beautiful night," she said, still smiling.
I held my cigarette in front of my lips, and wore an amiable
expression. "Indeed, it is." I paused to view outside through the front
doors and said, "It's getting dark. What time is it, do you know?" Truth
is, I had a pocket-watch tucked away.
"It is… nine o'clock, I think. Are you staying here alone?"
"Oh, I'm not staying. I very seldom get a room here. I just utilize the
hotel's other, less expensive, services."
"I can see you've already utilized the bar." Her smile grew.
I laughed, "To be correct, Miss, the bar utilized me." The glass of
brandy, I noticed, had been idle in my hand. I took a drink and followed
it up with another long drag from my cigarette, retired it, and exhaled a
haze of smoke. "What is the extravagant occasion tonight?" I asked.
"Oh," she laughed, "A concert and dinner. My husband and daughter
are up in the room now."
"Did you come down here for a drink?"
"Sure did." Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. "That is the
only thing to come down here for, isn't it?"
"Well, actually, there's bingo in the dining room tonight. If you hurry,
you might make last call." I winked, and drank from my, now expired,
glass.
She grimaced—in a beautiful way, if you can imagine it—and smiled
again. "I wouldn't dare insult your company that much, kind sir."
I beamed at her playfully and stood up; the ice stirred—as ice does—
within my glass. "Let's get that drink."
She followed me to the bar. Casually—and obviously practiced—she
requested a tall glass of red wine. I remarked that she should have
made that a white wine. But she ignored it. On our way out, she
tripped over her dress, miraculously not spilling a drop from her
glass. Holding her arm while she gathered herself, I told her, "Red
wine loves to be spilled."
"Long dresses love to be tripped over, I think, is a better observation."
We reclaimed our seats and I reached for my cigarettes. "So, we don't
even know each other's names," she said, sipping her wine.
I lit my cigarette, took my replenished glass, and stated, "Aloysius."
"Maura. Do you live far from here, Aloysius?" Her glass quickly
emptied into her mouth; the red lip-stick left a mark—as red lip-stick is
known to do.
Cold, icy glass touched my chin as I raised the brandy to my lips, I
took a drink, and told her, "I live a block down. If this place wasn't
nearby, I probably wouldn't come here." I, myself, knew that was
untrue. The hotel was a big part of me. I did a lot of growing there. It
was like an old friend that you care about, worry about, and talk to—no
amount of miles could keep me away.
"Oh, but this is such a lovely hotel. Everything is so tasteful, so
articulate in design. I feel comfortable here, especially right here, in
this chair, drinking, talking."
A smile came and I amplified it. "Yeah." My eyes wandered; to the
floor, to a painting on the wall that I had not ever really looked at
enough, then to Maura. Beautiful, I thought.
We drank and just chewed the fat for a few hours. I polished my glass
several times that night and, truth is, I felt nothing. It was pretty slow
that night. I didn't see most of the usuals, and only a couple of my
friends showed up at the circle. My car almost got stolen. I chased the
bastard with my glass and a small rock I found on the sidewalk—I
threw neither. Maura yelled at him, which was amusing, but not very
efficient.
Maura sat down, this time in the chair next to mine. She swung a
golden leg over the other, and turned towards me. I took a drink, and lit
another cigarette. Her perfume, once distant, coated the inside of my
nose.
She overlapped her arms on top of her legs, holding a forgotten
sequel to the former glasses she had polished, and said, "It's late."
Her breathe was drenched in wine. "I think I'm a little bit drunk." She
paused, allowing my eyes to recognize hers, and I suppose their
apparent need for recognition. "Do you want to see me to my room?"
"Okay," I said, and took the longest drag from my cigarette all night.
I summoned the elevator. We waited. Maura leaned on me, and her
arm found its way around my waist. Her perfume was toxic. I am
poisoned, I thought. She will take me in the elevator. She will let my
hands approach her skin, and her dress will rise up over her thighs,
pressing against my chest, I will smell her—oh, how I will smell her—
touching, touching, more touching until she stops, or until she let's me
stop.
No, I thought to myself.
The doors flew open. I guided her in, understanding that she was
capable of walking independently—but she did not. I looked down
while she reached for the button to her floor. Her breasts had almost
entirely divulged.
"Maura," I said, firmly.
"Yes?" Her voice was playful—my languid thoughts fumbled.
For a moment I watched the floor indicator. The numbers went up
slowly: two, three… five… seven. I mumbled something incoherent. It
was about Maura and her fingers skittering my belt. She turned, her
chest pressed my side—I was certain, by then, they were bare—her
head tilted back, and her hazel eyes fixated on mine.
A tongue surfaced, ran over her dry lips, and disappeared. Her mouth
released that warm, wine soaked air. I stumbled backwards—with her
attached to my sides—and met the wall. She giggled, almost
childishly. With her small, curved body against me—and her long
golden stems mirthfully assaulting my legs—I watched the display of
numbers: eighteen, nineteen, twenty... She is on the thirty-first floor, I
thought (almost aloud).
Twenty-two.
"Aloysius…" she moaned.
My mouth expanded and I tried forming gentle words, "Look, you've got
a…" breathe, "husband, and all of that." Breathe, breathe. "A kid, too." I
licked my arid lips, swallowed, and opened my eyes on Maura.
Her face had lost its symmetry. "Oh…"
The air was hot, moist, and reeked of perfume and red wine. I was
sweating, terribly. Maura's dress was dysfunctional, her chest
uncovered. She backed away to the opposite side, locked our eyes—if
only to show me that they were sad—and curled up on the floor.
"Aloysius," she whispered.
I stared.
"I'm not married. I don't have any children, either. I only told you that
because I wanted you to fall for me. I've seen you here, and every time
I can't get myself to go talk to you. So, I got all dressed up and got a
room here for the night, thinking you wouldn't be able to resist me if I
told you I was married and had a family. I wouldn't have been able to
approach you without making that up." Tears streamed down her face,
mascara was following slowly behind.
The elevator door opened. The display read thirty-one.
My face got warm, tears surfaced as if for the first time. I told Maura,
"Thank you," and I held her. She smiled, still crying, and pushed her
lips against mine.
Copyright belongs to Stan Stack
All Rights Reserved
by: Stan Stack
The lounge chairs surrounded a round, glass coffee table. Ash-trays
stood elevated in between each chair. There were ten chairs, each
black, leather, and resembling the sort of thing rich politicians sink
into before switching on C-Span. Above the center table was a glass
chandelier that would occupy the collective attention of the hotel
guests during their brief stay in the vestibule. I, along with some
others, did not take cheap spectacle to the grandeur of rich
conversation and the vessel that carried it. The circle of chairs, the
table, the ash trays: that was why I frequented that lonely hotel.
I kicked my feet, sitting in my usual seat within the circle. In my one
hand was a glass of brandy, in my other, a cigarette held loosely over
the neighboring ash-tray—my thumb was flicking it ardently.
"Hello there," said a voice from behind the chair I had privately called
mine.
I shifted, crossed my legs, and looked up at a face that was already
smiling. "Good evening," I said warmly. The shape of a woman,
obstructed from my point of view, stood over me. Young, formally
dressed, and appropriately perfumed. Her lipstick was red, in
wonderful compliance with her black dress, which wore her breasts
soundly; her cleavage was prominent. My thumb flicked my cigarette
again, and I took a long drag, following her as she weaved into the
circle, took a seat across from me and crossed her legs.
"Beautiful night," she said, still smiling.
I held my cigarette in front of my lips, and wore an amiable
expression. "Indeed, it is." I paused to view outside through the front
doors and said, "It's getting dark. What time is it, do you know?" Truth
is, I had a pocket-watch tucked away.
"It is… nine o'clock, I think. Are you staying here alone?"
"Oh, I'm not staying. I very seldom get a room here. I just utilize the
hotel's other, less expensive, services."
"I can see you've already utilized the bar." Her smile grew.
I laughed, "To be correct, Miss, the bar utilized me." The glass of
brandy, I noticed, had been idle in my hand. I took a drink and followed
it up with another long drag from my cigarette, retired it, and exhaled a
haze of smoke. "What is the extravagant occasion tonight?" I asked.
"Oh," she laughed, "A concert and dinner. My husband and daughter
are up in the room now."
"Did you come down here for a drink?"
"Sure did." Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. "That is the
only thing to come down here for, isn't it?"
"Well, actually, there's bingo in the dining room tonight. If you hurry,
you might make last call." I winked, and drank from my, now expired,
glass.
She grimaced—in a beautiful way, if you can imagine it—and smiled
again. "I wouldn't dare insult your company that much, kind sir."
I beamed at her playfully and stood up; the ice stirred—as ice does—
within my glass. "Let's get that drink."
She followed me to the bar. Casually—and obviously practiced—she
requested a tall glass of red wine. I remarked that she should have
made that a white wine. But she ignored it. On our way out, she
tripped over her dress, miraculously not spilling a drop from her
glass. Holding her arm while she gathered herself, I told her, "Red
wine loves to be spilled."
"Long dresses love to be tripped over, I think, is a better observation."
We reclaimed our seats and I reached for my cigarettes. "So, we don't
even know each other's names," she said, sipping her wine.
I lit my cigarette, took my replenished glass, and stated, "Aloysius."
"Maura. Do you live far from here, Aloysius?" Her glass quickly
emptied into her mouth; the red lip-stick left a mark—as red lip-stick is
known to do.
Cold, icy glass touched my chin as I raised the brandy to my lips, I
took a drink, and told her, "I live a block down. If this place wasn't
nearby, I probably wouldn't come here." I, myself, knew that was
untrue. The hotel was a big part of me. I did a lot of growing there. It
was like an old friend that you care about, worry about, and talk to—no
amount of miles could keep me away.
"Oh, but this is such a lovely hotel. Everything is so tasteful, so
articulate in design. I feel comfortable here, especially right here, in
this chair, drinking, talking."
A smile came and I amplified it. "Yeah." My eyes wandered; to the
floor, to a painting on the wall that I had not ever really looked at
enough, then to Maura. Beautiful, I thought.
We drank and just chewed the fat for a few hours. I polished my glass
several times that night and, truth is, I felt nothing. It was pretty slow
that night. I didn't see most of the usuals, and only a couple of my
friends showed up at the circle. My car almost got stolen. I chased the
bastard with my glass and a small rock I found on the sidewalk—I
threw neither. Maura yelled at him, which was amusing, but not very
efficient.
Maura sat down, this time in the chair next to mine. She swung a
golden leg over the other, and turned towards me. I took a drink, and lit
another cigarette. Her perfume, once distant, coated the inside of my
nose.
She overlapped her arms on top of her legs, holding a forgotten
sequel to the former glasses she had polished, and said, "It's late."
Her breathe was drenched in wine. "I think I'm a little bit drunk." She
paused, allowing my eyes to recognize hers, and I suppose their
apparent need for recognition. "Do you want to see me to my room?"
"Okay," I said, and took the longest drag from my cigarette all night.
I summoned the elevator. We waited. Maura leaned on me, and her
arm found its way around my waist. Her perfume was toxic. I am
poisoned, I thought. She will take me in the elevator. She will let my
hands approach her skin, and her dress will rise up over her thighs,
pressing against my chest, I will smell her—oh, how I will smell her—
touching, touching, more touching until she stops, or until she let's me
stop.
No, I thought to myself.
The doors flew open. I guided her in, understanding that she was
capable of walking independently—but she did not. I looked down
while she reached for the button to her floor. Her breasts had almost
entirely divulged.
"Maura," I said, firmly.
"Yes?" Her voice was playful—my languid thoughts fumbled.
For a moment I watched the floor indicator. The numbers went up
slowly: two, three… five… seven. I mumbled something incoherent. It
was about Maura and her fingers skittering my belt. She turned, her
chest pressed my side—I was certain, by then, they were bare—her
head tilted back, and her hazel eyes fixated on mine.
A tongue surfaced, ran over her dry lips, and disappeared. Her mouth
released that warm, wine soaked air. I stumbled backwards—with her
attached to my sides—and met the wall. She giggled, almost
childishly. With her small, curved body against me—and her long
golden stems mirthfully assaulting my legs—I watched the display of
numbers: eighteen, nineteen, twenty... She is on the thirty-first floor, I
thought (almost aloud).
Twenty-two.
"Aloysius…" she moaned.
My mouth expanded and I tried forming gentle words, "Look, you've got
a…" breathe, "husband, and all of that." Breathe, breathe. "A kid, too." I
licked my arid lips, swallowed, and opened my eyes on Maura.
Her face had lost its symmetry. "Oh…"
The air was hot, moist, and reeked of perfume and red wine. I was
sweating, terribly. Maura's dress was dysfunctional, her chest
uncovered. She backed away to the opposite side, locked our eyes—if
only to show me that they were sad—and curled up on the floor.
"Aloysius," she whispered.
I stared.
"I'm not married. I don't have any children, either. I only told you that
because I wanted you to fall for me. I've seen you here, and every time
I can't get myself to go talk to you. So, I got all dressed up and got a
room here for the night, thinking you wouldn't be able to resist me if I
told you I was married and had a family. I wouldn't have been able to
approach you without making that up." Tears streamed down her face,
mascara was following slowly behind.
The elevator door opened. The display read thirty-one.
My face got warm, tears surfaced as if for the first time. I told Maura,
"Thank you," and I held her. She smiled, still crying, and pushed her
lips against mine.
Copyright belongs to Stan Stack
All Rights Reserved
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Aspiring Writers is owned and operated by
Lavenia Ann Claman
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 1999 - 2007
Lavenia Ann Claman
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 1999 - 2007
