Pistachio
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: When a story comes to life...
_____________________________________________________________________
He only wanted two things, to drink and to write. Both were out of control. Consequently, he was more widely known as a drinker than a writer. He filled his mouth with wine. There are many ways to write a story, he knew, most of them a variation on a theme. As he swallowed, he closed his eyes. It wasn’t difficult to blank out the sounds of the other men in the cafeneio. He tried to concentrate on a single image – a woman’s face, and the eyes set in that face, eyes that looked at him, unblinking, as the woman spoke. This woman was beautiful. She scared him. He was trying to get to the point of understanding why, and of being able to put it into words.
He opened his eyes and she was there, on the other side of the table.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘I thought you were sleeping,’ she said. ‘I almost walked past. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘You’re not disturbing me,’ he said. ‘Far from it.’
They sat in silence. He would have shouted for another glass, but he knew she wouldn’t accept a drink. Not in here. Not from him.
‘Have you got that book?’ she said.
He remembered now. He reached into his bag. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
She flipped through the first few pages, the title and dedication. ‘Will you sign it for me?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said, and scribbled something on the inside cover. She took the book from him. He watched her read.
‘Pistachio?’ she said. He had made her blush, which was his intention. ‘Is that the shade?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are beautiful, you know.’
She looked nervously at the other customers, but most of them were out on the pavement. In any case, they wouldn’t have understood a word. Her fingers touched the piece of paper next to his glass. ‘What are you writing?’ she said.
If it had been anyone else he would have made an excuse. ‘It’s a story about a man,’ he said. ‘He has a problem.’
‘What problem?’ she said.
‘He is infatuated with a woman,’ he said. ‘Do you know what ‘infatuated’ means?’
She shook her head.
‘It means he is obsessed,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right. And that’s his problem?’
‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘For the man, being obsessed, infatuated, is nothing out of the ordinary. Given time, it passes. The problem is that he is infatuated with this particular woman, whom he knows personally, and he wants to tell her. He wants to, but he can’t.’
‘Why can’t he?’ she said.
Because she makes him feel alive, he thought. Because she has pistachio green eyes and I want to drown myself in them. ‘The usual constraints,’ he said.
A group of men sat down outside. They looked into the cafeneio. They looked at the woman.
‘I’ll have to go,’ she said.
‘Don’t go,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t go. I need to ask you something.’
She hesitated. It was more than a hesitation. It was as if she was thinking, weighing up the pros and cons of being there. ‘Ask me,’ she said at last.
‘What should he do?’
‘Who?’
‘The man. Should he tell the woman? Should he tell her he wants to reach out and touch her face, to caress it?’
‘He wants to touch her face?’
‘Yes, he wants to have…he wants to be with her. Should he tell her that?’
She looked at the men outside, who were talking amongst themselves. ‘These restraints you mentioned...’
‘Constraints,’ he said.
‘Yes, constraints,’ she said. ‘What are they?’
‘The usual,’ he said. ‘Fidelity. Being found out.’
‘Well if he’s married…’
‘They both are,’ he said.
She blushed again, more deeply than before. ‘I think if they’re married they should respect their vows. After all…’
He could finish the story now. She’d given him the answer. Her mouth was moving, her voice droning, boring into him, boring him. Her eyes were no longer enchanting.
She put a hand on the book, stroking it. ‘I think you’re a really good writer,’ she said.
Yes. Yes, maybe I am, he thought, although he knew that being a writer, even a really good one, didn’t cut it. He didn’t cut it. It was nothing new. He poured another glass of wine and watched her leave. He watched her till he couldn’t see her any more.
Swearwords: None.
Description: When a story comes to life...
_____________________________________________________________________
He only wanted two things, to drink and to write. Both were out of control. Consequently, he was more widely known as a drinker than a writer. He filled his mouth with wine. There are many ways to write a story, he knew, most of them a variation on a theme. As he swallowed, he closed his eyes. It wasn’t difficult to blank out the sounds of the other men in the cafeneio. He tried to concentrate on a single image – a woman’s face, and the eyes set in that face, eyes that looked at him, unblinking, as the woman spoke. This woman was beautiful. She scared him. He was trying to get to the point of understanding why, and of being able to put it into words.
He opened his eyes and she was there, on the other side of the table.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘I thought you were sleeping,’ she said. ‘I almost walked past. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘You’re not disturbing me,’ he said. ‘Far from it.’
They sat in silence. He would have shouted for another glass, but he knew she wouldn’t accept a drink. Not in here. Not from him.
‘Have you got that book?’ she said.
He remembered now. He reached into his bag. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
She flipped through the first few pages, the title and dedication. ‘Will you sign it for me?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said, and scribbled something on the inside cover. She took the book from him. He watched her read.
‘Pistachio?’ she said. He had made her blush, which was his intention. ‘Is that the shade?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are beautiful, you know.’
She looked nervously at the other customers, but most of them were out on the pavement. In any case, they wouldn’t have understood a word. Her fingers touched the piece of paper next to his glass. ‘What are you writing?’ she said.
If it had been anyone else he would have made an excuse. ‘It’s a story about a man,’ he said. ‘He has a problem.’
‘What problem?’ she said.
‘He is infatuated with a woman,’ he said. ‘Do you know what ‘infatuated’ means?’
She shook her head.
‘It means he is obsessed,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right. And that’s his problem?’
‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘For the man, being obsessed, infatuated, is nothing out of the ordinary. Given time, it passes. The problem is that he is infatuated with this particular woman, whom he knows personally, and he wants to tell her. He wants to, but he can’t.’
‘Why can’t he?’ she said.
Because she makes him feel alive, he thought. Because she has pistachio green eyes and I want to drown myself in them. ‘The usual constraints,’ he said.
A group of men sat down outside. They looked into the cafeneio. They looked at the woman.
‘I’ll have to go,’ she said.
‘Don’t go,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t go. I need to ask you something.’
She hesitated. It was more than a hesitation. It was as if she was thinking, weighing up the pros and cons of being there. ‘Ask me,’ she said at last.
‘What should he do?’
‘Who?’
‘The man. Should he tell the woman? Should he tell her he wants to reach out and touch her face, to caress it?’
‘He wants to touch her face?’
‘Yes, he wants to have…he wants to be with her. Should he tell her that?’
She looked at the men outside, who were talking amongst themselves. ‘These restraints you mentioned...’
‘Constraints,’ he said.
‘Yes, constraints,’ she said. ‘What are they?’
‘The usual,’ he said. ‘Fidelity. Being found out.’
‘Well if he’s married…’
‘They both are,’ he said.
She blushed again, more deeply than before. ‘I think if they’re married they should respect their vows. After all…’
He could finish the story now. She’d given him the answer. Her mouth was moving, her voice droning, boring into him, boring him. Her eyes were no longer enchanting.
She put a hand on the book, stroking it. ‘I think you’re a really good writer,’ she said.
Yes. Yes, maybe I am, he thought, although he knew that being a writer, even a really good one, didn’t cut it. He didn’t cut it. It was nothing new. He poured another glass of wine and watched her leave. He watched her till he couldn’t see her any more.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford is from Grangemouth. His work has appeared in over twenty
publications, including Interlitq, B O D Y (Czech Republic), Gutter, The Ofi Press (Mexico) and The
Athens News (Greece). Andrew's first
novel, Drive!, was published in
2010. He has also written two
collections of short stories, The Next
Stop Is Croy and A Man's Hands. He lives in Greece.