Love in the Afternoon
The prompts were: romance, palace, propaganda. The word limit was 1000 words.
Soft morning sunbeams sifted through the cut glass of the large windows as Carl arrived to work. Morning was his favorite time of day in the 100-year-old former palace. These first moments reminded Carl of what his country once was. Before the war. Before the new government. The morning light softened the chipping paint, dull floors and leaky radiators.
Carl breathed in, tapping his index finger against the drill that worked at half its capacity and weighed the order of his work for the day. What he should do to keep the disrepair at bay against what he truly could do. A one man repair department without supplies. He opened his eyes, his architect-trained mind immediately redrawing the palace.
“The art room pipes are leaking again.”
Carl shook the drawings from his thoughts and turned. Sandra stood watching him, her arms crossed. “Why can’t you fix them? Didn’t you study architecture at the university?”
Carl smiled complacently. “Until new pipes come, I can only patch.”
Sandra dropped her arms as though the truth was too heavy to hold. “Come on.”
Truthfully, Carl could fix the pipes. But then he wouldn’t have as many chances to see Ylena.
The love of his life.
He took the stairs two at a time to the third floor, leaving Sandra far behind. Ylena’s laughter, the soundtrack for the third floor, already filled the air.
“What are we supposed to do with all of this?” Ylena asked, laughter still bubbling out of her. Carl stopped short at the sight of her. Her shiny brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves, her cheeks were pink with merriment.
“Morning,” Carl said, tearing his eyes away from Ylena.
“Hiya,” said Ylena’s co-artist, Micah. Contrary to Ylena, Micah’s voice was heavy as he contemplated the boxes stacked in the room. “You can see we have a new project.”
Ylena rummaged through an open box and pulled out a large, creamy-colored block. “It’s soap,” she said before laughing again.
“Should be easy to market,” Carl said, setting up his ladder.
“It’s soap that doesn’t make suds or clean,” Micah said, rolling his eyes. It wasn’t a critique against the state, but Micah still glanced towards the doorway. “We have to sell it.”
Ylena shrugged and uncovered a canvas showing a row of ruddy-cheeked children lined up with their noses in fat books. The words at the top, Reading Makes You Smart, burst towards the viewer, forcing the eye to focus on them. At the bottom, the words If You’re Smarter, We’re All Smarter lined up like obedient citizens. Carl smiled at it.
She was very close to him. “You like it?” she asked, bumping her shoulder lightly against his.
“It’s cute,” Carl said, his voice gruff. In his daydream, he slipped his fingers into her hand.
“I’ll take it to the copy room,” Sandra announced, marching headlong into the room and right in between Carl and Ylena. “Move your easel so Carl can work, Ylena. Get to work on the soap.”
No one spoke again until Sandra was gone.
“I don’t know how we’re going to do this,” Micah muttered, picking up his pencil. “Convince people to buy soap that doesn’t clean?”
Ylena picked up a waxy bar and held it up, her full lips puckering as she concentrated. Carl almost missed a step on the ladder at the sight of her.
“You okay?” Micah asked.
Carl nodded, turning his attention to the ladder and pipe until they forgot about him, lost in their brainstorming and sketching.
“These are boring and unconvincing,” Sandra said, reappearing as Carl was packing up. She glared at him before he could escape. “The presentation floor is squeaking, and the windows won’t open. Fix them before tomorrow.”
Carl swallowed his reply.
“Here,” Micah said, offering him a soap with two nails stuck into it. “It’s our latest idea.”
Carl grabbed it and left, Sandra’s lecture about the glories of painting for the state following him.
Carl ignored his growling stomach as he plodded through the presentation room, marking the squeaky places with soap. Fifty spots and only ten nails. Carl stared at the marks a long time, then at the soap.
He remembered his grandfather rubbing soap into his cabinets before delivering them. Carl got on his knees and rubbed the soap into the last spot. The squeak disappeared. He smiled at his good fortune, then did the same in another spot. Again, the squeaking stopped.
After eliminating the squeaky floor spots, Carl turned to the window. As Sandra said, it didn’t budge. He rubbed soap along the frame, lubricating the old wood until the window slid up.
The late afternoon breeze was his reward.
“Did you use the soap?”
Carl’s heart skipped when he saw Ylena eying him from the doorway. “Yes.”
Ylena threw her arms around his neck. “You’re a genius,” she whispered.
The fragrance of her hair raised his pulse. Carl cupped the back of her neck and covered her lips with his. Ylena mewed, pressing her body closer to his. When the need for oxygen forced them to pull apart, both were panting. Carl waited for a reproach, but none came.
“Ylena,” Carl whispered. “Will you have dinner with me?”
“I have to work,” she said, her voice gravelly. “Now that I have a way to sell the soap.” Her eyes slid from the soap back to him. “Would you stay with me while I work?”
Relief flooded him. “I’ll be there when I’m done. With something for us to eat.”
Ylena walked away, smiling at him over her shoulder before she disappeared. Carl leaped in the air as the setting sun streaked orange across the sky.
Critiques from the judges:
