Read Online Arcane II by Nathan Shumate (Editor) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nathan Shumate (Editor)
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has opened its palm. You reach for your wallet, thicker with credit cards than with cash, pull a few wilted bills from the damp leather and press them into the cotton palm. Is it possible that the hand just smiled at you?
You turn asking of anyone around you, “How am I supposed to find my room?” Your eyes land on an attractive woman with strawberry blond hair and sapphire eyes. Her silk blouse is unbuttoned to reveal a pink silk camisole. You wished you hadn’t checked your bag; you feel out of place without your pajamas on.
You open your mouth to strike up a conversation, but stop when you notice that the buttons are missing on her shirt. All of them gone, leaving empty button-holes and wisps of thread. “What happened to your buttons?” you ask.
She unzips her complimentary conference tote bag and pulls out a stuffed octopus. It only has one eye; you recognize the other as the button off your own cuff. She points to your neater sleeve. “He’ll be needing that.”
“Yes,” you hear yourself saying. “Of course he will, how rude of me.”
You offer your arm to her, asking, “What’s your name. Mine’s––”
“Why be hemmed in my something as rudimentary as a name? Really, can a few syllables contain one’s essence?”
She has a point, you think. She brings your hand towards her mouth, and for a delirious moment you think she might kiss it, or put one of your fingers in her mouth. She doesn’t. All she does is bite off your button, her perfect pearly teeth shearing the thread with a crisp snap. You watch as she pulls a needle out of the hem of her grey skirt and sews the button onto the little cephalopod’s plush face. She passes him to you and smiles. “Keep him close tonight,” she says.
You hold the tiny, cotton stuffed thing at arms length and ask, “What’s his name?”
She shoots you that look of didn’t we have this conversation already? Then she says, “He’ll watch for the idea thieves while you sleep.”
The what? You must have heard her wrong through the fog of your hangover. Maybe she was being ironic. Maybe you just need some coffee, feels like days since you had a cup. “Idea thieves?” you ask, looking for some clarity, but knowing this is a pattern in your life––in any man’s life––responding to what a pretty girl says, no matter how strange the words.
“They come out in droves for conventions like this,” she explains. “They bribe the bellmen to let them into your room and suck your ideas out of your ears with a giant straw.” She points to a man opening his briefcase with the deliberate slyness of a 1960’s spy-movie villain. He has a wide pink straw in one hand, which he quickly stashes in his luggage. “The only way to avoid them is to sleep in the bathtub, but,” she looks to her right and left, then whispers, “Herman here will give you a little extra protection. Now you know his name, so be careful with it.” She wiggles one of his tentacles. “Never hurts to have a little extra.”
Now you know why you spoke to her. She reminds you of the class pet in fifth grade, a white bunny you wanted so badly to take home for the weekend. Summer came before your name came up on Snuggles weekend getaway roster and you never forgave Jimmy for that last Saturday in May. You pull the cardstock from your back pocket. “Are you going to this?” you ask. “The manuscript wedding?”
“I have to buy a gift first,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “But yes, I’ll be there.”
You watch her firm backside for perhaps a moment too long before you realize... “Wait, I still don’t know who you are.” But she’s gone, lost in the parade. You can find her at that wedding, you tell yourself, and realize that you don’t have a gift either. If you can just get to your room, maybe you can wrap up some complimentary soaps, or raid the mini bar for a bottle of wine. You turn to look for another bellman and when you look back, she’s still
You turn asking of anyone around you, “How am I supposed to find my room?” Your eyes land on an attractive woman with strawberry blond hair and sapphire eyes. Her silk blouse is unbuttoned to reveal a pink silk camisole. You wished you hadn’t checked your bag; you feel out of place without your pajamas on.
You open your mouth to strike up a conversation, but stop when you notice that the buttons are missing on her shirt. All of them gone, leaving empty button-holes and wisps of thread. “What happened to your buttons?” you ask.
She unzips her complimentary conference tote bag and pulls out a stuffed octopus. It only has one eye; you recognize the other as the button off your own cuff. She points to your neater sleeve. “He’ll be needing that.”
“Yes,” you hear yourself saying. “Of course he will, how rude of me.”
You offer your arm to her, asking, “What’s your name. Mine’s––”
“Why be hemmed in my something as rudimentary as a name? Really, can a few syllables contain one’s essence?”
She has a point, you think. She brings your hand towards her mouth, and for a delirious moment you think she might kiss it, or put one of your fingers in her mouth. She doesn’t. All she does is bite off your button, her perfect pearly teeth shearing the thread with a crisp snap. You watch as she pulls a needle out of the hem of her grey skirt and sews the button onto the little cephalopod’s plush face. She passes him to you and smiles. “Keep him close tonight,” she says.
You hold the tiny, cotton stuffed thing at arms length and ask, “What’s his name?”
She shoots you that look of didn’t we have this conversation already? Then she says, “He’ll watch for the idea thieves while you sleep.”
The what? You must have heard her wrong through the fog of your hangover. Maybe she was being ironic. Maybe you just need some coffee, feels like days since you had a cup. “Idea thieves?” you ask, looking for some clarity, but knowing this is a pattern in your life––in any man’s life––responding to what a pretty girl says, no matter how strange the words.
“They come out in droves for conventions like this,” she explains. “They bribe the bellmen to let them into your room and suck your ideas out of your ears with a giant straw.” She points to a man opening his briefcase with the deliberate slyness of a 1960’s spy-movie villain. He has a wide pink straw in one hand, which he quickly stashes in his luggage. “The only way to avoid them is to sleep in the bathtub, but,” she looks to her right and left, then whispers, “Herman here will give you a little extra protection. Now you know his name, so be careful with it.” She wiggles one of his tentacles. “Never hurts to have a little extra.”
Now you know why you spoke to her. She reminds you of the class pet in fifth grade, a white bunny you wanted so badly to take home for the weekend. Summer came before your name came up on Snuggles weekend getaway roster and you never forgave Jimmy for that last Saturday in May. You pull the cardstock from your back pocket. “Are you going to this?” you ask. “The manuscript wedding?”
“I have to buy a gift first,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “But yes, I’ll be there.”
You watch her firm backside for perhaps a moment too long before you realize... “Wait, I still don’t know who you are.” But she’s gone, lost in the parade. You can find her at that wedding, you tell yourself, and realize that you don’t have a gift either. If you can just get to your room, maybe you can wrap up some complimentary soaps, or raid the mini bar for a bottle of wine. You turn to look for another bellman and when you look back, she’s still
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