Relief in E Minor
The supermarket staff’s faces shone with the glaze of cold sweat in the freezer aisles. Biv trailed towards the ice cream, distracted by a sense of offness.
That last text to Gene had felt wrong. She hadn’t said yes in the flavor she’d intended. She’d meant it as a “Oh, I’ll meet you there,” not a “Oh, I’ll meet you there!” What if he interpreted the exclamation as an invitation? He always clenched his jaw in the cubicle across from hers, as if keeping his words behind bars. What if he tried to ask her out with the few words he let out on parole? What would he do if she said no?
The lights blared. She scanned the choices for ice cream. Such a whiplash, hiking into the air conditioning when summer chuckled outside. She wanted the chocolate fudge but hesitated. A pop song prattled through the speakers, as loud and fast as a sugar rush. She swallowed, her mouth dry.
She didn’t know Gene enough to judge. Maybe he did charity work on the weekends. Maybe he cared for hurt baby birds in an animal shelter. Maybe he used the muscles cording his forearms for lifting elderly in and out of wheelchairs instead of for hitting walls. But she didn’t know. She would have to see him every day; she could run into him at the elevator, at the coffee machine, in the parking lot garage—she clutched her keys in her fist and their teeth pressed into her skin.
Her phone buzzed. Gene. It read, “Meet you there. Haley’s coming too.”
The song changed. A raspy, low voice poured from the supermarket’s speakers in E minor. It tasted like dark chocolate and raspberries, subtle but still sweet, rich but not overwhelming. Biv closed her eyes and let the sound melt on her tongue. Some people needed weed, or alcohol, or a sense of righteousness. Biv lived for minor key. It poured over her and dampened the fidgeting, the buzzing, the offness. She breathed in. Breathed out.
The lights were no longer shouting. Her body settled back into her skin. Did some men know the terror of meeting, even in a public place? Did some know how shallow a breath could get? Maybe. She didn’t know enough about Gene to judge. But for today, she inhaled all the way again, tasting the subtle relief in E minor.
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FROM THE AUTHOR:
“This story details a day in the life of a woman who has to figure out if she is safe or not.”
©2022 Emmie Christie
EMMIE CHRISTIE’s work tends to hover around the topics of feminism, mental health, cats, and the speculative such as unicorns and affordable healthcare. She has been published in Flash Fiction Online and Three-Lobed Burning Eye, and she graduated from the Odyssey Writing Workshop in 2013. She also enjoys narrating audiobooks for Audible. You can find her at www.emmiechristie.com.