Extinction: Episode 1

August 2010 is filled with family reunions and house guests, so I’m trying something a little different that will give me a bit of breathing room. Instead of a weekly shot of flash fiction, I’m serializing a short story I wrote about six months ago. This story percolated in my mind for several years after I read a letter to the editor in my local newspaper.

“Extinction” was rejected by a print publication. Rather than sending it out again, I decided to post it here. I recognize that it’s a bit off-beat, but I still like it. Let me know what you think.

Extinction
by Cathryn Grant

Episode 1

The best table in the restaurant was nestled in the corner next to a picture window. It was both secluded and prominent. Securing it on a Saturday night required a reservation two weeks in advance. Zyra sauntered toward the thirty-something couple seated there. Simmering beneath the woman’s off-the-shoulder black dress and the man’s raw silk shirt was the palpable need to devour.

In Zyra’s mind, everyone who ate at The Flaming Fish was a criminal. In the restaurant’s back room, the bodies of living creatures were steamed and sautéed, broiled and grilled. Patrons consumed those formerly tough silvery bodies without giving a single thought to the blood poured out. They failed to consider the torture endured with hooks and nets and cages, as the poor souls gasped for oxygen. The breath in her own lungs grew tight. She swallowed and tried to regain her composure.

What she wouldn’t give for the freedom to use a boning knife to carefully fillet these two. Their lips curved gently as they reveled in the desire for each other and the anticipation of consuming dead flesh. She had to maintain control, had to smile and burble subservient words. This was required if she wanted to garner the extra cash they would leave at their whim. Her livelihood depended on how their conversation went, how well the food was prepared and whether the wine met their expectations. She might not be able to pay her electric bill if they harbored negative thoughts concerning the temperature, noise and lighting of the room. If they felt satisfied and important by the end of the meal, she would be rewarded with any extra cash they chose to share. A food prostitute. That’s what she was.

“How are you this evening?” she allowed her lips to part, showing her upper teeth, aiming for a smile that wasn’t too giddy. “Are you looking forward to the excellent dining experience that The Flaming Fish affords? Are you anticipating our freshly caught seafood, flown in from the best spots around the world for harvesting lobster, crab, sturgeon, sea bass, halibut and more?”

The woman held up her hand. “We’re regulars, we don’t need the pitch.” Her face had lost its drowsy smile.

They didn’t look familiar, which probably meant he was a stingy tipper. “Terrific. Then let me tell you what the chef has created specially for you tonight. First, there’s a bisque prepared with Sonoma cream, a hint of Napa sherry and fresh lobster that’s pureed …” she coughed. A chill rippled down her spine. She closed her eyes and saw those unique souls, their beady eyes, sparkling with intelligence, looking around so hopefully. She’d watched them move their claws as they strained to find purchase on the counter, unaware that they were headed for a pot that would steam their brains out of existence. Their shells would be torn off and their bodies dropped into a heavy glass jar where blades would tear apart their corpses until there was nothing but fine shreds that could be smoothed into cream and spices.

The man put down his menu. “Are you crying?”

Zyra blinked. More tears flowed across her eyeballs. She sniffled. “No, I’m fine.”

“Your eyes are all red.” The woman spat out the accusation as if Zyra had lied.

“I’m just a little emotional.”

“Is something wrong?” said the man.

“We’re not here to provide therapy to the waitress,” said the woman.

Zyra glanced behind her. Gordon stood at the back, watching, like he always did. Staring. She was never sure which stare it was. Was it the gaze that said he longed to stroke her body? And if he thought she didn’t recognize that stare, he was more stupid than she’d realized. Or, was it the stare that said, get your act together, provide that fine dining experience we hired you for. She could hear his voice, rattling inside her skull, You’re not here to socialize with the patrons. We’re not that kind of place. It’s your job to be pleasant but aloof. This evening, she was quite sure his stare was the latter.

She whipped her head back around. “The salad is a mixture of California avocado with Kalamata olives and miniature green grapes on a bed of Arugula. It’s served with a balsamic and rosemary dressing prepared fresh for each serving, and sprinkled with llama cheese.”

The woman nodded, taking in each word as if she was already lifting the fork to her mouth, touching her lips against the creamy clusters of cheese, closing her eyes in the ecstatic anticipation of food that no one else had ever tasted in that particular combination. This was the niche created by Marissa, the owner of The Flaming Fish. It was the reason people liked to get to an early seating. The first patrons to order that day’s selection had the bragging rights to a blend of foods that, presumably, no other person had ever consumed.

Episode 2: Sunday, August 8

© Copyright 2010 Cathryn Grant

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