by Audra Wolfmann
Steven’s eyes scanned the room as I described the past year – the new doctor, the new medications, a book I almost read. We were in a North Beach bar that hadn’t changed since its beatnik heyday, except for the prices and clientele.
“Maybe you don’t need medication, Shelly. I read that depression is…”
Frankly, I was surprised he was listening to me. “I gotta hit the little boys’ room,” I interrupted. Did he still find jokes like that charming? Did I even care anymore? I left him to watch my purse and trekked to the john in heels so high they ceased being fun hours ago.
In the bathroom, an old vending machine hung on the wall. It read “Sensual Love Toys.” I’d always wondered what was in these machines. Could the metal box contain vibrators, cock rings, and God knows what else? I inserted a quarter, turned the knob, and a matchbox-sized gift was dispensed. I was a little disappointed that a monstrous dildo didn’t drop down like a candy bar.
The cardboard box read “Spanish Fly.” It was empty but the inside revealed a cartoon fly in a sombrero with a huge boner. Drops of sweat flew from his fly forehead. The confused ethnicity of this frustrated bug, combined with the whisky and meds, sent me into hysterics. Who thinks of these things? I pictured a small man hunched behind a desk, developing ideas for tiny novelties.
Hilarity became joy as I remembered that Steven was there. Even though he now lived in New York and only called when he was in S.F. for work, maybe we could have one more good night and joke about the Spanish Fly. Tomorrow, I’d tell him that I deserve better than a neglectful quasi-ex.
I returned to the table to find empty chairs and my unattended purse. The bar was filling up with drunk tourists and young professionals living it up before the Google bus came in the morning. S.F. isn’t what it used to be. Punk shows and bike messengers became tan Dockers and autistic party animals.
From the window, I could see Steven smoking my cigarettes in the alley. A familiar anger surged. It was just like him to disappear. And with my cigarettes.
“Fuck this,” I told the window and staggered to the street to wait for a cab.
“Is this desertion?” Steven laughed tensely as he approached.
“You disappeared and left my bag. What’s wrong with you?”
“No one’s going to steal your bag, Shelly.” He only invoked my name when attempting to shame or educate me.
“Everyone is going to steal my bag. I don’t know what San Francisco you think you left behind, but clearly not the one in reality.”
“Can we talk about this calmly, like people?” He put his hand on my shoulder, sending a warm ripple of electricity through my body, but my body has never been a good judge of character. This electrical current pulled me back to him again and again since he moved to New York without me.
“No.” I mumbled. “I’m not people.”
The wind carried my protest down the street along with bits of food wrappers and torn tourist maps. Steven’s arm settled around my shoulders, and I began to disappear, each cell in my body shrinking, fading. I squeezed the Spanish Fly in my sweaty fist, hoping I could compact it into oblivion.
Audra Wolfmann has an MFA from Mills College and lives in San Francisco where she handles the marketing for Amoeba Music, the last great record store. Publications include Modern Language Studies, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. She’s also a member of Tight & Nerdy, the world’s first (and only) Weird Al burlesque troupe. A documentary about them is touring festivals.
