Sugar and Shopping & Other Noteworthy Addictions

Sugar and Shopping & Other Noteworthy Addictions

Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction

Summary

This is completely unedited, comments are welcome. I will add more at a later date. ------------------------------------------------------------When KIMMIE SADOW moved to New York to get away from her southern childhood roots, no one could convince her she shouldn’t have what she wants. With a family past filled with alcoholism, homelessness and mental disease, the past spills into the present as she commits crimes of friendship against her best friend, ISABELLA, that soon cause their relationship to unravel. But a sudden revelation soon forces Kimmie and Isabella together to reconcile their differences. Unfortunately, Kimmie discovers that not everyone believes in forgiveness.

Summary

This is completely unedited, comments are welcome. I will add more at a later date.
------------------------------------------------------------When KIMMIE SADOW moved to New York to get away from her southern childhood roots, no one could convince her she shouldn’t have what she wants. With a family past filled with alcoholism, homelessness and mental disease, the past spills into the present as she commits crimes of friendship against her best friend, ISABELLA, that soon cause their relationship to unravel. But a sudden revelation soon forces Kimmie and Isabella together to reconcile their differences. Unfortunately, Kimmie discovers that not everyone believes in forgiveness.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Sugar and Shopping & Other Noteworthy Addictions

Author Chapter Note

This is completely unedited, comments are welcome. I will add more at a later date. ------------------------------------------------------------When KIMMIE SADOW moved to New York to get away from her southern childhood roots, no one could convince her she shouldn’t have what she wants. With a family past filled with alcoholism, homelessness and mental disease, the past spills into the present as she commits crimes of friendship against her best friend, ISABELLA, that soon cause their relationship to unravel. But a sudden revelation soon forces Kimmie and Isabella together to reconcile their differences. Unfortunately, Kimmie discovers that not everyone believes in forgiveness.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 13, 2012

Reads: 431

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 13, 2012

A A A

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Ch. 1

my girls

In my thirties, I became the unforgiven; and embraced a life that would teach me how to welcome the bliss of accompanied loneliness. Her name was Elaine. She taught middle school. Before Elaine got married she taught school in The Bronx. She owned a small creaking house with yellow chipping paint that she said was “bleeding her dry” because of the numerous repairs, and the hefty mortgage. I owned a tri-level duplex in Mount Vernon. Since both Elaine and I owned homes, we took turns hosting our get-togethers on Thursday evenings. It was better, we decided, than going to some skanky bar or some beat-up old lounge to gag from the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke, which I found out Elaine didn’t mind so much. She was a two packs a day smoker. More, especially if she was anxious or having trouble with her husband. She always smelled of cigarette smoke which she tried to cover with cheap, unnamed perfume. She married a little, maybe a year, after we met. She and he later moved to Manhasset’s Munsey Park, to live the good life. Her home became a three story—Tudor-styled. Her husband was a big shot business man, about ten years her senior. I met him a couple of times while Thursday Visiting. After a while, it got so that her husband no longer wanted us meeting at their house. Power-trippin’ I suppose. So we would just meet at mine. But it was just as well. She would smoke in the house and it often gave me migraines. After Elaine moved to Manhasset, she got a job teaching on Long Island. She did alright for herself too. An eleven year teaching vet on Long Island, what she took home wasn’t half-bad.

It wasn’t just us two. There was also Isabella-pretty, plain and freckle-faced. We were three, consisting of the good, the bad, and the quiet.

********

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” I yelled; hopping from the kitchen

covered in white flour and sugar. The doorbell was ringing. The habit I had of going straight to the kitchen after work fully dressed, with my heels still on proved to be the wrong decision. In my rush, the black pumps I wore snagged on the stringy fringes of the red and black area

rug sprawled over the floor in my living room; and I lunged forward. My right knee broke my fall. I let out a weary and frustrated breath as I stood up to open the door. I saw Elaine grin on the other side of the door. Her wide and misshapen smile distorted by the concave peep-hole glass stared back at me.

“It’s us.” She replied. “Let us in.”

From behind the portly body of Elaine, emerged Isabella.

I let them in.

Immediately they commented on the aromatic smell coming from the kitchen. Chocolate-chip cookies- freshly baked; and piping hot coffee always blended together to take the winter chill from our cold skins. Collectively, this was our favorite of all comfort foods. Each of us would alternate in preparing the desserts that would satisfy our palates and soothe our emotions. Initially, this bought out our competitive side. Each lady would try to out-do the other. Who was the best dessert chef? Once, Isabella prepared a dish called cherries-in-the-snow. She said it was a friend’s recipe. She brought it in a large Pyrex dish and laid it proudly on my coffee table. Elaine was the first to drag her finger around the edge of the glass container. Isabella and I waited in anxious silence as she lifted some of the fluffy white topping, dripping along the sides of the container, licked it from her fingers and gulped. Elaine closed her eyes to meditate on the flavor. She had been seduced. She wanted more and nodded her head in approval. I eagerly followed and reached for a taste. Isabella’s eyes lit up as she watched us greedily slice and heap mountains of her confection unto our plates.

Crumbs and a smidge of topping escaped my full mouth when I asked, “What is this made of?”

Promptly Isabella answered, “A friend of mine teach me how to

make this.” Mostly, Isabella camouflaged her Jamaican accent well, but her syntax would occasionally betray her origins.

“ It’s angel food cake, dream-whip, cream-cheese, and cherries.” And I ain’t gonna show you how it’s made neither. So doan ask.” She continued in her Jamerican accent.

I swallowed, reached for a napkin and wiped my mouth clean. “I won’t…We won’t.” I said staring at Elaine. That was to be Isabella’s secret, even though I knew at anytime, we could search for the recipe by doing a search by computer. We decided to let Isabella have her place in the sun. She had had so few.

Thursday was our time to relax, and support each other. Away from prying eyes we let ourselves just be with out judgment of each other. We would talk about family, children, sorrows, lovers, finances and very rarely—work. Elaine had children-two with her husband of eleven years. Whenever Elaine spoke of things she wanted to change in her life, her husband appeared at the top of the list. After all those years, she was bored; their sex life was dry and she believed he had taken to seeing other women behind her back.

“Don’t know why I stay with that man; don’t really love him no

more…forty-three years old…I am too old to have him puttin’ me

through changes. ”

Isabella and I would shake our heads in sympathy for her and say the same thing we said every time she complained about him, “Then leave.” And that was still the advice we gave her while putting a fork full of the our Thursday dessert to our already saccharine covered lips. We had been telling these same two words to her for over four years. All our words were ineffectual, even the palliated ones. Nothing could make Elaine leave that man, but Elaine. They had grown accustomed to each other after years of a stale and worn marriage; old, tired and untrue—the old comfy shoe. So, silently and secretly, without passing judgment—for her, we gave up on the idea of change.

As for Isabella, rarely did she have moments of passion. Her nature combined prudishness with passivity; a wicked blend. Most of her life she had been the doormat. As she told it, she rarely ever won at anything or won anyone. We discovered the extent of her non-existent love life when she once, held her left hand in the air and flashed her open palm at us to indicate the number of lovers she had in her life. Five.

“And I am not even that bad looking; I don’t think.”

Elaine and I chimed-in in agreement.

Isabella was in no way unattractive to look at. She had pale almost porcelain skin and maintained her slender figure well. As a black woman, she inherited her almond shaped eyes, and the luxury of manageable hair from her Jamaican Hakka Chinese roots. She ate well and took care of herself . Figure wise, the only flaw I saw, was her flat, square chest, which I think should only belong to gymnasts and marathon runners. Attitude caused most of Isabella’s problems. Not to say she was mean, or rude; but she didn’t have many friends outside of me, and Elaine and. The people she interacted with at work fell into the category of acquaintances, at best. But she was a prude. And her prudishness repeatedly became a source of her inability to capture, and of her irritability with men. Whenever a man approached, she was extremely coy and demonstrative only in a sister-wife of a polygamist kind-a-way. A turn-on or turn-off depending on the man. If by some miracle, she managed to get a conversation going, she spent most of it apologizing to the gentleman she was talking to. A typical conversation with Isabella went something like this:

Strange gentleman-“Hi. Saw you’re an attractive lady. Thought I’d come over and introduce myself.”

And she would proclaim without any provocation, “I don’t usually wear skirts this short., but my girlfriends…,” and she would point to us sitting in the dark corner of whatever lounge or bar we were in—the man with her squinting and peering to get a glimpse of us through the dusty-haze of minimal lighting, “…Told me to wear it.” Or one of my favorites, “I am still a virgin. So, I apologize if you are looking for a more sexually experienced woman.”

She was 35.

“Where did this woman come from?” Elaine and I wondered while we watched her in amazement. Granted her religious background played some part in her brain-washing about propriety and what a woman should be; but what church did she attend, ‘The Fundamentalist Church of Living Under the Rock?” Her modes were insulting and outdated at best. But here again, we all agreed in the past to accept each others shortcomings, so we could accept ourselves. So, no one could make Isabella change, but Isabella;—though Elaine and I tried our best to help her evolve. When Isabella wasn’t hanging out with us, she spent most of her time calling psychic lines.

“I know I am going to meet a nice man soon. I just have to be patient.”

“Of course, honey” I’d say. “Did a psychic tell you that?”

Elaine smirked, rolled her eyes and mumbled, “You meet nice men all the time. You scare ‘em off.”

I pinched Elaine’s thigh and twisted to quiet her. She winched and

flailed her arms. “Ow! That hurts.”

“Yes,” She’d respond by rolling her eyes back at Elaine. “She say in a

few weeks, I’ll meet a dark-haired man with a goatee from a foreign

country.”

“Elaine slyly commented, “Honey, did you ever consider

that any man you meet’ll be a foreigner?—You Jamaican.” She followed up her words with a deep throated laugh to ease the tension that was arising between her and Isabella.

“You know I’m just joking, relax.”

Isabella mustered a loud “hmmph” rested the side of her face on her

folded hand and stared intently to challenge Elaine.

“You will see.”

“It’s alright D, tell me more”, I said waving my hand to gesture

to ignore Elaine. She emphasized, “What Elaine doesn’t understand is that these predictions don’ always happin’ right away. It can take years. But, I trust Mama Lucie. I been using her for a long time and she say, soon…within three to four weeks. And I’ll meet him at work.”

It was apart of our pact to never mention work during our time. Only if there was truly an issue that required immediate attention and directly related to some aspect of our personal lives did we dare to tread on the originator of our major stress. Work was the reason we decided to come together. Work was why we three met.



© Copyright 2018 Elaine Riveri. All rights reserved.

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