Rosbif

Here's the very humble beginning of a short story. This is hugely experimental for me in every way. 1) I never share work 2) Especially not on the internet and 3) This is the first time I'm attempting to use a male protagonist. So on that note, while you lot clap and cheer me on, this is it, provisionally called Rosbif:



If this were one of his films, Russ would instruct his camera man to treat the lady with procedural filmic respect; the kind where they view her from down up. From her ankles, up along a long thigh, to her neatly nipped waist, to her proverbially heaving bosom, to the base of her throat, to archly pursed lips, to the large wateriness of her eyes, oh! And this is why he was shocked. Because her clean little feet, coaxed into those brown wedge sandals, contrasting delightfully with the metal leg of the chair she had them wound around, did not prepare Russ in anyway, to reach the top of the shot, and find at the end of his visual appreciation, she was nothing but an urban savage. The red of her nails, the red of the meat, red flashed in the eyes of a gouging beast…

He retched onto the floor.

There’s nothing more repulsive than the sight of a woman eating meat.

*

‘You alright there, sir?’

Blink. ‘Yes, thanks. Quite alright. Just fine, thank you. Thank you.’

The waiter hesitated. The eye of his manager was upon him. Customer service, customer service, ringa-ringa-rosied around his psychology like the proceedings of a ritual and prevented him from jumping out of his skin. Vomit, eugh! ‘Are you sure, sir? I’ll just get you a glass of water while I get something to clean that up.’

Russ watched the waiter leave, and concentrated on the departing sound of creaking shoes. Then, on the approaching sound of cumbersome, chaffing thighs. He found it more productive, given the circumstances, not to dwell on the fact that he was the afternoon’s spectacle. People would go home and say, ‘So I was in this lovely little bistro in Russell Square today and this dude went and lost it all over the floor…’

Consider words like Disgusting, Revolting, Gross, Pathetic. It occurred to Russ; that people might speak those words later on in the day and remember his face, his favourite jeans, the sight of his elbows towering high in the sky as he rested his palms on his thighs and the revolt of his stomach shot the projectile toward the ground.

And in all the commotion that he was determined not to take any notice of, the scarlet woman sat there staring at him. Just impudently looking on, while she masticated her meat and scribbled in her notepad, like she was on celestial business. That word, that filthy word, surely, must have been coined with unsavoury connotations in mind. He stared back down at the floor, contemplating the offerings of his gut. It would serve her right, Russ thought, if he scooped them up with his side plate and novelly conditioned her hair.

***

And there you have it folks. That's most of what I've got for this one so far. Bear in mind that it hasn't been edited or worked on - this is th rough deal. I have a few other ideas, but thy need a bit of mulling over. Feedback and constructive criticism are very welcome, as are any questions/guesses on where you think the story might be going...