I could go to Heathrow. We could have a time-out in
the gents. I’d never done it in a public toilet, so that would
be new. And then I could go home and… oh God I’d meet
my husband and I’d feel so guilty I’d go red as beetroot and
fumble my words and he would guess what happened and
be unhappy, and I’d hate to make him unhappy. Would
he do the same to me? Of course he would, but that didn’t
make it any easier for me. It wasn’t my morals stopping me,
but I was not a good liar. The train slowed to a halt. My baby
maker was throbbing like ET’s magic finger.
—My stop, I flustered.
The doors opened. My heart closed, opened, closed.
I said, —Bye. And got off the train. I glanced back and
caught him looking at me. Could anyone be as stupid as me?
Why hadn’t I said Heathrow? I funnelled along with all the
other zombies to the exit, but I couldn’t leave, I had to see
him again. I turned back, then stopped, what was I doing?
I caught the next train to Heathrow. I hated the tube.
All these people just sitting there like Mexican beans being
bounced around. What the hell would I do when I got to
Heathrow? There were four terminals. Which one was for
Chicago? I didn’t know what time his flight was. I looked
around the carriage for a map or plan. Just the stations, not
where the flights went. I couldn’t stay for long. I had to take
Daisy to dance class. I didn’t really have to take her, but it
was nice for her. All the other mums took their budding
Pavlovas, so I shouldn’t expect mine to go on her own. I’d
missed a couple of times and she’d said it didn’t matter but I
could tell from her eyes that she’d been disappointed.
This train was going to terminals 1, 2 and 3. Wouldn’t
it be just my luck if Chicago was terminal 4. What if all
the terminals had flights to Chicago? I didn’t even know
if he was flying direct. Maybe he’d go to New York first.
I thought about getting off the train, and going back. I
arrived at Heathrow, looked at departures: everywhere —
except Chicago.
I went to a desk.
—Excuse me can you tell me which flight goes to
Chicago?
—Depends on the carrier.
—I think it’s the next flight out. I’m meeting someone to
say goodbye.
—American Airlines, 14.45, terminal three.
I went to terminal three and looked along the queue
waiting for American Airlines flight something-or-other:
no gorgeous man with a stiffy. Although I doubted that he’d
still have a stiffy after 40 minutes. I hoped he wouldn’t —
for his sake. I wandered around feeling stupid. What would
I say if I met him, Oh, hello, fancy meeting you here?
Are you catching a plane?
Um, no no, I’m meeting someone.
•
I went back to Hammersmith. When I got to Daisy’s
school, she’d already left. I rushed to her dance class. It had
started. I waited. At least I could take her home. I stood in
the corridor looking at the notice board, and I could feel
him pushing against my ass. It made me feel warm and
stupid.
SAMANTHA MEMI is a housewife who cleans, dusts and cooks. Her windows are
sparkling bright. There are no cobwebs lurking in corners, and her bathroom is germ free. Her
basement is a bit smelly but, as the only person who goes down there is her husband, she doesn’t
mind. Her tips on household maintenance can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/
Astoria Saudade
K
atelyn left Mike one day before the refrigerator
broke. They never thought much about the
refrigerator during their 3-year relationship.
When all that need to be cold turned room
temperature Mike decided to throw out
the refrigerator. Mike wrapped his body around it and
attempted to move it. Katelyn never considered its age
or how it got into their five story Astoria walk-up. The
refrigerator clung to the sticky residue that haloed its base.
Mike pressed his entire weight down to move the monolith.
A crackling sound erupted as the refrigerator was ripped
from its crusted comfort zone. Mike shimmied it towards
himself and saw a thick residue spot where the refrigerator
once stood. Inside the layer was old food, Q-Tips, dead
roaches and dust bunnies; all those things that build up
over the years.
Mike called in sick; he could not imagine eight hours
of sitting in his cubicle. Katelyn went to her East Side
legal services office. Her first night alone she fed squirrels
thrice. fiction.
8
André M. Zucker
THRICE FICTION™ • April 2014
Issue No. 10
in Astoria Park while he lay in what used to be their bed.
Mike worked at a nonprofit company which he found
meaningful but underwhelming. Katelyn was visibly
disheveled when she walked in but her colleagues were too
polite to comment. Mike continued to push the refrigerator
out of the apartment. Neither of them had been willing to
clean while they dismantled their life. Mike barely noticed
how much junk accumulated until he started to move the
refrigerator. Katelyn booked a hotel just before her lunch
break and immediately dreaded an evening alone. Mike
cleaned up with each of the refrigerator’s movements.
Katelyn would have liked to come home to an orderly living
space.
Not knowing where to go Katelyn crossed the 59th Street
Bridge. She wandered Astoria until she arrived a falafel
restaurant. They both loved Astoria’s gritty boulevards and
quaint side streets. They frequented the neighborhood’s
Greek and Turkish eateries and shopped at the local
supermarkets. Katelyn moved into his apartment on 37th
9