Flash Fiction Friday - The Raisin Girl

The Raisin Girl


"What nationality you think the Sun-Maid girl is?" Steve asked through the wispy trails of smoke that rose between us.

"I don't know, Steve," I replied, and left it at that, savoring - in a moment of fully self-aware passive-aggresiveness - the deliciously agonizing limbo in which he was now swinging, just begging for me to relive him, which, finally, I did. "What do you think?" I asked, extending my open hand.

Floodgates open, the words gushed through. "I used to think she was like, Italian or something, I don't know - when I was growing up. Or maybe just a white chick like that Dorothy chick in 'Wizard of Oz'. Now that I'm older and more world-weary, I'm thinking Mexican...maybe an outside shot she's Indian."

I think he meant 'world-wise'. "She's fictional..."

He finally passed me the lighter and continued. "Like Pocahantus."

I ignored him and sparked up, drawing the dancing orange flicker in until it was a barely visible blue.

"I wonder what her life was like," he said, looking to me for a response.

I turned my eyes to him and shrugged, grateful that my mouth was occupied so he couldn't expect much in the way of a reply.

"She probably died young," he supposed out loud. "Smallpox...or maybe the Spanish flu. And I wouldn't be surprised if she was raped more than once."

I exhaled a smooth plume of blue smoke. As my lungs emptied, it began to feel like I was melting just a little. I smiled dumbly to myself, feeling very much at peace. "Sucks," I said to Steve; I was referring to the fate of the poor Sun-Maid girl, but I then thought that he might think I was referring to the weed.

"Oooh!" Steve burst out, pointing a fat, boorish finger excitedly in my face. "Oooh! Like the Land O Lakes chick...you know, that Indian chick with the butter?"

I thought of that trick where you cut out the butter she's holding, then fold her up so that her bare knees show through and look like boobs. I was going to mention it to Steve, as I'm sure he'd constructed one before; hell, probably even jerked off to it, but he pre-empted me.

"Do you think, Joe, that they were..." he seemed to lose his train of thought for a bit, then found it again, "think they were...passionate women?"

"Fictional," I repeated.

"Man, I bet they could fuck," Steve said longingly. "The both of them."

I shrugged again. Soemtimes, that's all I can do.

"Tell me you wouldn't hit that," Steve demanded.

I did not tell him that, or say anything, actually. All I could do was sit there and think, over and over, that I simply had to get a new pot dealer.


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Listening to: Brendan Small - Louis Louis Rap
via FoxyTunes