A Perfect Woman - A Short Story

My, it's been a long time. Here's a short, under-500-word piece about a character I'm thinking about. Feel free to leave your comments below!

A Perfect Woman

By Kristen Berry

“You’re beautiful,” Mark said, “and smart, and funny, and wonderful. You’re perfect, really. The best girlfriend I ever had. I’m just . . . I’m not ready. I thought I was ready, but I guess I’m not. I’m not sure when I will be. And it wouldn’t be fair to make you wait – I couldn’t ask you to do that. Seriously Jane, you deserve someone better than me. Someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved . . .”

Jane stopped paying attention. She could recite the speech by heart. The semantics varied, but the sentiment remained the same: It’s not you, it’s me . . .

She performed the next several acts on auto-pilot: she collected the few things she’d left around Mark’s condo (a nightgown, her pricey face cream, the novel on the nightstand), kissed Mark on the cheek and walked out the door with her head held high.

In the safety of her Mercedes, she allowed herself to weep. After five minutes, she pulled a tissue from her purse, blotted and buffed the tear streaks from her face, reapplied her lipstick and pulled away from the curb.

Jane drove to the nearest bookstore. After a moment’s pause in Periodicals she selected a copy of Italian Vogue, then located the travel section and selected a book at random: Philadelphia.
She walked into the salon around the corner.

“Jane,” called the receptionist. “I’m sorry, did you have an appointment today? We’re booked solid.”

“Please?” Jane asked, her smile charming. “It’s an emergency.”

The receptionist winked. “I’ll find a way to get you in.”

In the lobby Jane flipped through the magazine she’d purchased and ripped out a page.

“The usual blowout today?” the hairdresser asked once she was in the chair.

“No,” she said, placing the magazine page on the immaculate counter, “I want this.”

She spent the next two hours having her honey-colored hair died chocolate brown, several inches chopped off so the ends hovered precisely just over her shoulders, with bangs that just concealed her green eyes.

Then she drove home to her undecorated, pre-furnished one-bedroom apartment. She taped the magazine page to the bathroom mirror, and regarded her reflection. She wiped off her pink lipstick, replacing it with a nude shade, and traced her once naked lash line with black liquid, coating the lashes with more. She took a Polaroid camera from a shelf in her bedroom and turned it backwards, the flash illuminating her face. She tossed the photo into a shoebox filled with others just like it.

It took less than the time to transform her hair than to pack her things. Once on the other side of the door, she removed the key from her chain, placed it in an envelope with a note and a few hundred dollars, and pushed it through the mail slot.

And like a hundred times before, Jane was gone.

Everything - A Short Story

I know, it's been a looong time since my last post. Better late than never, right? :-p Here goes, my first 500-word story of the year. Enjoy!

Everything
By Kristen Berry

I should have seen it coming. But when I saw him on the other side of the restaurant with her, my insides did that awful thing when half your parts hit the floor and the other lodge in your throat. I suppose he felt the same way, as I sat there with Jack. I saw it, too; the muscles under the skin of his face went to stone.

He didn’t come back into my life overnight. For a while, I would just see him from afar in public places, though I was never sure he saw me. Not until he appeared behind me one day at Borders and asked, “Are you haunting me?”

Never one for small talk, he immediately asked me to coffee. A person could have coffee with an inconsequential ex, someone with which you had only shared a few memories and too much time. But Kevin . . . It had been seven years, and still he inspired the novels that paid my bills. No, there could be no coffee between us.

After several weeks of ignoring his emails, I finally gave into an e-conversation with him. We compromised on the terms: seeing each other would be too dangerous; calls too personal; letters too romantic. We would communicate through email alone, deleting each other’s messages as soon as they were read.

It filled a void. When we forced ourselves to stay focused on what we had and not wish for more, we actually made up for all the little things we’d settled for in our partners.

For a moment, we had everything. But then I saw him at the restaurant, sitting with his wife, and all the things I couldn’t have were the only things I wanted.

I needed to leave. But we were only halfway through our appetizers and I didn’t want to arouse Jack's suspicions. Not that he would ever suspect anything anyway. Good, sweet Jack. He deserved so much better than me.

I excused myself with a smile and walked toward the ladies’ room. It was locked. I rested my hands on the table in the hall and hung my head.

I hated myself. Our affair might not have been physical, but I was still just like the shoes that tracked the dirt onto the rug I stood on, dragging grim bits of the outside onto something bright and beautiful, ruining the thing over time.

I mean, weren’t Jack and I happy? Even if he didn’t fulfill my every need, even if he never understood me the way Kevin did, even if he couldn’t sum up the world with all the eloquence and wisdom of an epic poet, weren’t we still happy?

Then I felt his hand on my back. I was a column of Jenga blocks just after the last piece was pulled, swaying fruitlessly, trying to right myself though in a matter of seconds I would be dashed to the floor in a million broken pieces.

I've Been a Bad Blogger . . .

Actually, I've been a good blogger . . . it's just been for another blog (http://www.newsforpeoplewhoreadgood.com).

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about "A Literary Girl." Now that "News for People Who Read Good" is up and running, I'm definitely returning my attention to fiction.

Stay tuned! My goal is to get another piece of super-short (500 words) fiction up by next week.

New Year, New Blog

I apologize for the lack of posts lately. As I'm sure you could tell from my last several posts, I've been thinking a lot about the disconnect between traditional publishing and the Internet age. Instead of continuing to simply comment on it, I decided I should try and do something about it, even if only in my own, small way.

I've decided to launch a new blog (it won't replace "A Literary Girl") to provide readers and writers with a single source for literary news, presented in a fresh, irreverent voice. Check it out at www.newsforpeoplewhoreadgood.com/. Save it to your bookmarks, and subscribe to the feed!

"Move Over Kindle; E-Books Hit Cell Phones"

The other day my boyfriend and I were talking about the popularity of Amazon's Kindle. "Wouldn't it be cool if you could skip buying the $400 gadget and just get the books straight to your smartphone?" I asked.

Turns out, people already do. And, according to BusinessWeek, people are downloading books to their smartphones at a lower price than those using Kindles. Not to mention at a lower price than those buying the books the old fashioned way, at actual bookstores.

Interesting . . .

"Move Over Kindle; E-Books Hit Cell Phones," BusinessWeek, Dec. 30, 2008

http://www.businessweek.com/technology/content/dec2008/tc20081229_937226.htm?chan=top+news_top+news+index+-+temp_news+%2B+analysis

NYTimes: More Readers Picking Up Electronic Books

Continuing the ongoing conversation about the future of the publishing industry, the New York Times published a story about the rise in electronic book sales:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/24/technology/24kindle.html?_r=1&partner=rss

Dropping the Ball: A New Year’s Eve (Short) Story

Ah, the holidays. The perfect fodder for fiction. My writers' group is off until January, but I thought I'd continue our short story tradition with 500 words of fiction inspired by the holidays.

Dropping the Ball: A New Year’s Eve (Short) Story

By Kristen Berry


There’s never a good time to break up with someone. There’s no hour of the day or section of the calendar during which the news hurts less. There are bad times to break up with someone, however. Like around the other person’s birthday. Or Valentine’s Day. Or perhaps, worst of all, during the holidays. Because unlike one single, emotionally-charged day, the holidays are a barrage of them. That’s why I decided to break up with Frank in January, once all the bright, shiny decorations, holiday cards and party invitations were put away.

Frank had celebrated New Year’s with his best friend, Colin, since they were undergrads at NYU. That year Frank and I doubled with Colin and his girlfriend, Delia, a WASP-y girl whose every sentence ended with a question mark. It irritated and amused me equally; I found myself asking her questions regularly just to hear her do it, like a child that picks at a scab though it hurts.

“So, how’s the job going, Delia?” I asked as we hovered near the buffet, me loading my plate with small exotic-looking appetizers as Delia watched, holding a glass of champagne in one hand while absent-mindedly running her hand through her blonde hair with the other. I was pretty sure 80% of the hair wasn’t hers.

“It’s going great?” She replied. “I actually just got promoted? I’m a floor manager now?”

“Wow, Delia. That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Thank you?”

Suddenly there was a chirp of feedback from the stage. All of the emcee’s sentences ended with exclamation points. I thought he and Delia would make an excellent couple.

“Okay everyone! The clock’s winding down! If you’re not already with him or her, I suggest you find your date and get ready to pucker up!”

Delia and I wove through the maze of couples until we found Frank and Colin.

“There you are babe,” Frank said, wrapping an arm around me and pressing his lips to the crown of my head. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d found another man to kiss at midnight.”

The irony of his words cut me. I looked at Frank and wondered how much I’d miss him when he was gone.

“Okay everybody, it’s that time! 10! 9! 8...”

The electric crackle of anticipation filled the air. All around me women clutched their dates’ arms eagerly, and the men chanted the countdown with the same glee they might their college fight song.

“… 3! 2! 1! Happy New Year!”

As the balloons and confetti rained down from above, Colin grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me full on the mouth as both our lovers watched.

Even now, eight years later, I still tell Colin it was the cruelest way anyone could announce a breakup. He argues that the pain was sharp but quick, like ripping off a friend’s Band-Aid unexpectedly so he wouldn’t have to do it himself.