Smolder

Speculative Fiction by Liz Lydic

One by one, they came into his life and then went out. “No drama,” was the investment broker’s warning, and then, at the point of ending the relationship, was the reason for the final break. He’d drive to the girl’s residence under average circumstances; she, delighted in seeing him, would go in for a kiss. Placing his hand up to stop her, he’d point back to his double-parked expensive car and begin the quick untangling. “Too much drama,” he’d say, and the girl – tall and lean and sharp-angled, unmarked pale skin from head to toe, someone who came from money, a nymph who lacked both adversity and the habit of countering him – would stutter and form tears as he made his final exit.

Over and over, this occurred.

There was one, though, that the investment broker met on a certain hot Spring day, who surprised him. She, with her own job, and her luscious bosom and copper hair and generosity in intimacy, had more to say than any of the other girls. She listened too, to him, even occasionally stating her interest in ‘agreeing to disagree’. Her curiosity blazed. She joked. She cared little about what other people thought.

“Quite a woman,” said the investment broker’s friends after they met her. His upper lip twitched in response.

At a meal that was otherwise uneventful, the copper-haired woman’s eyes lingered on his and he felt something jarring inside his body. Hastily, he drank his scotch. The woman tugged at a red scarf stylishly placed at her neck, a habit the investment broker had noticed for the first time the last time he’d seen her.

“I can’t wait to figure you out,” she said, as she brought a sweating wine glass to her lips. Her mouth appeared enlarged and cartoonish through the base, and the investment broker felt swallowed alive.

It was the same night as the meal – he could not risk waiting an extra day to settle from how he felt after her statement – that he drove to the copper-haired woman’s home, preparing to double-park.

At the intersection leading to the multi-tenant residence where she lived, the investment broker was nearly clipped by rushing fire engines and paramedic vehicles, all of which were heading in the same direction as he.

After they passed, the investment broker turned left and as he approached the building three blocks down, he saw that the engines were there, at the place. Her place. It was blazing, engulfed in flames. From below, men blasted water against the building, tiny streams pathetic to the monstrous ignition. The investment broker, double parked in the street at a safe distance that still allowed his voyeurism, watched as the building shrank, gulped by the combustion in what must have been seconds.

The car idled, and the investment broker rolled down his window. He could hear the voices of the firefighters.

“Flashover.”

“Rapid growth.”

“No survivors.”

The investment broker blinked several times, and then a twitch in his left eye was followed by a movement in his left cheek, where his lips pushed upward into a smile. Soon, his stomach began participating, and in seconds, sounds of laughter emitted from his open mouth. There would be no need to knock on the copper-hair woman’s door, no need for a discussion, no need for her desperate response to his rejection! No drama.

The investment broker was flooded with relief.

***

He sat at a tavern three days following the incident. The bar was familiar, as was the waiter, and as was the glass of aged Scotch he consumed while making familiar conversation with familiar patrons, including women he deemed sufficient to satisfy his biological curiosity.

Over and over he sipped his drink, until an hour passed, when he made the effort to drain the glass, only to find it full again as he set it down. The waiter, down at the far end of the bar, had not filled it; it was not possible with his distance. To be certain, the investment broker placed the glass to his lips and drank the new two fingers of Scotch so quickly that the acidic scorch reached not just the back of his throat, but also the roof of his mouth, the esophagus pipe to his stomach, and the backsides of his eyes.

He placed the glass down again, keeping his hands possessive on it, and noticing the wave of warmth surging in his body. The tavern’s insides turned hazy and loud for a moment before the investment broker looked down at the glass to see that it was full again. No one was nearby.

He stood quickly then, aware that his behavior was erratic, but unable to modify his actions. Wetness, one drop at a time, slid down his back in a series of tickles. He wiped his palms over and over on his tailored pants, yet they continued to produce an endless supply of slippery moisture.

Managing to thrust his hand into his pocket to scour enough money to lay down near the full glass, the investment broker made an exit, and as he did, his legs seemed to move independent from his body. Outside the tavern provided no relief. Couples, bundled up and huddling close, passed by him on the sidewalk. The investment broker averted them and walked home rapidly, drenched in sweat.

Finally, inside his residence, all wood floors and sleek furniture, a coolness. The investment broker sunk into his leather couch. His breath was short, and his lips tasted of salt. He closed his eyes, and recognized the instant pull toward sleep, but after two deep, slow inhalations, a sharp, corrosive odor nagged at his right nostril. Sure he had imagined it, the investment broker continued his rest, until then the smell was in his left nostril, and then filling his nose and lungs.

He sat up and opened his eyes abruptly, and saw nothing but a sweeping gray smoke on all sides. By flailing his arms in a way he was certain appeared childish, the investment broker could move away some of the suffocating air. His neck jarred in different directions, causing a delayed throb inside his skull. He settled on the kitchen as the source, as in that area of the home, the vapors had thickened and created ascending brain-like orbs.

His eyes teared with the sting of the air, and breathing in caused dizziness. Only after several seconds had passed and the investment broker had gotten his bearings was he able to clearly see the red scarf in a pan on his stove top, charring to nothing.

***

Two days later, the kitchen was cleaned and the home returned to its normal odor.

In his bedroom, the investment broker enjoyed the swell of an approaching climax, just seconds from release into a pale girl. Rolling pleasure grew from groin to brain, sweeping through his internal fluids, driving them all to an oncoming resolution.

But, then, a pierce. “Oh!” the investment broker shouted, pushing off the girl’s light shoulders. “What was that?” The girl, eyes frightened and dark. “What was what?” The investment broker held himself back from yelling, desperate to finish his business.

He went back inside her, thrusting, and then the same pierce, now spreading to an excruciating heat in his abdomen. Sweating, he tried again. Embarrassment, an unfamiliar feeling, emphasized the physical pain.

Over and over, he drove himself into her, and then then out, as the piercing returned each time. His stiffness remained, impatient for its final act. The investment broker closed his eyes and thought of water, of ice, and then remembering the pale girl and the way in which she fawned over him, finally, the culmination began, all of him overjoyed with liberation. Then, the last thrust, and the girl emitted a guttural cry. “Burning!” she screamed, and as he opened his eyes he completed his ecstasy just in time to see her mouth wide, cartoonish, magnified, as if through the bottom of a wine glass.

***

A week passed wherein nothing extraordinary seemed to have ever occurred. Wednesday, in the morning, the investment broker put the finishing touches on a presentation he would give to an important client. Before lunch, the investment broker had made his key points, and the potential client team of five had nodded at the expected moments. The investment broker, moments away from concluding, paused to drink water after announcing to the clients that the current economy was in no danger of overheating. A sound came from one of the listening men, first a water glass sliding on the table, and then a laugh.

“I’ll have to agree to disagree,” the man said.

The investment broker, who had begun to pack his briefcase in response to pending victory, froze. “I’m sorry, what?” His upper lip wept with sweat.

“I’ll have to agree to disagree,” said the client, now laughing, and the investment broker attempted to finish the briefcase business and exit without explanation, but the client repeated his statement over and over.

“I’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“I’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“I’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“I’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“I’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“I’ll have to agree to disagree.”

The investment broker stumbled first just an inch, barely noticeable, but then again on another step toward the door, knees giving way only to meet a scalding floor. “Ah!” he cried, crawling now, as his hands melted into the heat. He came up quickly, palms outstretched as the room laughed and chanted. Finally, he was out, and on the other side, the statement continuing from inside the room, but less audible.

***

The bank had not heard from him in days.

Finally, a man the investment broker had known for years, one of the men who had made nice mention of the copper-haired woman, knocked on the investment broker’s residence.

When there was no response, the colleague began to leave, until, spotting the investment broker’s car double-parked a small distance away. With a second thought, the colleague knocked again. After one minute with only silence, the colleague slowly turned the doorknob, surprised by its openness.

The colleague called the investment broker’s name over and over as he made his way cautiously down the cavernous hall, noticing a heat rapidly increasing as he approached what appeared to be a bedroom.

The door was ajar, and the colleague smelled the damage before he entered the room. The crook of his arm covering his mouth, he walked slowly, blinking through the stinging in his eyes. Pushing the door back, he entered, only needing a second to see the large bed bordered in low flames, and what was left of the investment broker’s body, turning to ash.

---

Bio: Liz Lydic is a mom, writer, and local government employee in the Los Angeles area. She also does theatre stuff. You can find her at her website HERE

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