A Perfect Life and Other Stories

By Elaine Burnes

Call it happily ever after or a perfect life, it's a universal destination we all hope to reach. Lily plays out the anxieties of her freshman year while standing in line. Lin, wanting only to be left alone, watches a stranger waiting on her porch. Denny flies tourists around an Alaska mountain, hoping to forget, while Alice embarks on an adventure to remember. Tate and Emily, friends since childhood, team up to play out the pirate games of their youth, only this time it's not a game. From North America's highest mountain to that quirky town at the end of the hook of Cape Cod and well past the stars beyond, Burnes explores the hopes and fears that drive us all. With eight previously published stories, and the all new "Auto Repair," A Perfect Life and Other Stories is the first collection by the author of Wishbone.
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"A Perfect Life" — "A Certain Moon" — "Forget-Me-Not" — "Lily Gets a Flu Shot" — "The Game" — "The Gift" — "The Stranger" — "Tracy Arm" — "Auto Repair"

• Language: English
• Publisher: GusGus Press
• Release date: Jun 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201741945

Book preview

Also by Elaine Burnes . . .

Endurance

Wishbone

A Perfect Life

and Other Stories

by

Elaine Burnes

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© 2016 Elaine Burnes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any means,

electronic or mechanical, without permission in

writing from the publisher.

978-1-943837-36-6 paperback

978-1-943837-37-3 epub

978-1-943837-88-5 mobi

Cover Design

by

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The Gift, Khimairal Ink, April 2010

Lily Gets a Flu Shot, Venus Magazine, Vol. 2, No. 1.,  February 2012 (Fiction Contest 3rd place)

Tracy Arm, Khimairal Ink, January 2011

The Game, Best Lesbian Romance 2011 (Cleis Press, 2011)

Forget-Me-Not, Khimairal Ink, July 2011

A Certain Moon, First published in Wicked Things (Ylva Publishing, 2014) (2015 Goldie winning anthology)

The Stranger, Read These Lips, Take 5, 2011

A Perfect Life, Skulls & Crossbones (Mindancer Press, 2010)

Auto Repair, 2015 Saints and Sinners Short Fiction Honorable Mention

GusGus Press

a division of

Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

Fairfield, California

http://www.bedazzledink.com

Call it happily ever after or a perfect life, it’s a universal destination we all hope to reach. Lily plays out the anxieties of her freshman year while standing in line. Lin, wanting only to be left alone, watches a stranger waiting on her porch. Denny flies tourists around an Alaska mountain, hoping to forget, while Alice embarks on an adventure to remember. Tate and Emily, friends since childhood, team up to play out the pirate games of their youth, only this time it’s not a game. From North America’s highest mountain to that quirky town at the end of the hook of Cape Cod and well past the stars beyond, Burnes explores the hopes and fears that drive us all. With eight previously published stories, and the all new Auto Repair, A Perfect Life and Other Stories is the first collection by the author of Wishbone.

For Dejay

My friend and trusted reader who has encouraged me every step of the way and read and critiqued all these stories. Peace.

Contents

The Gift

Lily Gets a Flu Shot

Tracy Arm

The Game

Forget-Me-Not

A Certain Moon

The Stranger

A Perfect Life

Auto Repair

The Gift

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MORNING GLEAMED LIKE a poem as fat snowflakes spiraled past my window. I like how snow silences the world, a cold compress salving the fevered pace of life. This was the first of the season. If it didn’t turn to rain, as forecast, I’d have to deal with it, but for now, I enjoyed the view and savored the warmth of flannel sheets, the weight of the comforter, and the delicate, floral scent of the woman curled against me. The furnace came on with a comforting oomph down in the basement, and soon creaks and groans accompanied the hot water expanding the heat pipes along the baseboards.

My companion shifted. Her left hand, cupping my bare breast, squeezed, not with any intent to stoke desire, but with a dream. I smiled and kissed her curls.

I sighed. What could be better? Freshly fallen snow, a beautiful woman, new love. My breath caught. Holy . . .

Shit.

Hmmm? She stirred. What’s wrong? she mumbled, sleepily. It came out more like Whiz’ong?

Nothing, hon. I combed my fingers through her hair until her breathing settled back into its sleepy rhythm.

My heart pounded. I stared at the ceiling and held my breath, willing myself not to hyperventilate. My stomach churned, a different sensation from last night, when I was full from Abby’s amazing dinner—her roast turkey, special cranberry sauce, apple pie, and stuffing—oh, the stuffing. A Thanksgiving feast fit for Pharaohs.

What followed Thanksgiving and snow and falling in love? I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly.

Christmas. Christmas meant presents. Presents meant buying something for Abby. The first big gift-giving event of our relationship. Make or break time, yet I hardly knew her. Sure, we’d been together three months, and I had moved in last month, but that wasn’t enough time before the First Big Gift. Not nearly enough.

Oh, why did I have to fall in love in the summer? Why couldn’t it have been January? January would have left me a whole year to get to know her. Wait, Valentine’s Day would be worse than Christmas. March. Let me have met her in March. Maybe there’d be a birthday along the way, but that could be tossed off with a simple dinner out. But Christmas. Jesus H. Christ on a raft.

––––––––

FOR THE NEXT week, I racked my brain. Had she dropped any hints? None that I could recall. I resorted to asking her directly.

I only want you, she replied with a hug and a kiss. Sweet, but not helpful.

What could I buy the lesbian Martha Stewart? That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I really needed to know! She managed a gift shop, for Christ’s sake. Plus she had her own catering and interior design business. She was the expert everyone turned to for gift-giving occasions. Where could I turn? We had no mutual friends—she wasn’t from my lesbian inner circle. I didn’t know her family at all. Besides, you shouldn’t have to ask someone else what to buy the person you love. Right? Desperate, I went to my best friend, Roz.

Does she like to cook? Roz wasn’t known for her power of observation.

We stood at a butcher block table, under a forest of hanging, gleaming copper pots in a kitchen that while not large, looked as though Abby had walked into Williams-Sonoma, held out a credit card, and said, Outfit me. This was Abby’s kitchen. Our kitchen, she was always saying since I moved in. I still didn’t know where the butter knives were. Hell, I didn’t know what a butter knife was.

I closed my eyes and steadied myself. You have no idea. I pulled a fat cookbook off the shelf and slid it toward Roz. Potluck Potpourri. Abby’s face smiled from the cover as she held up a steaming casserole. The dimples and blue eyes were real, and realistically cute, although they had Photoshopped her teeth whiter. "A fucking bestseller on the New York Times list for eighteen weeks."

Roz stepped back as though the book might explode. She looked up at me, her eyes narrowed. You hate to cook. So why are you two together?

With her, I don’t have to, which is probably for the best. I’d hate to compete with her on anything.

Is it the sex? Is that why she likes you? Roz strained to keep from grinning, but her eyes betrayed a mischievous crinkle. I always suspected you were really hot in bed. Those muscles . . . Her eyebrows waggled suggestively. Everything was about sex to Roz.

Yeah, and the dirt under my fingernails. Sandpaper skin’s a real turn on. I rolled my eyes. Focus, Roz. I need help here, not therapy.

Roz, being a mere mortal, did the only thing she could. She took me to the mall. Not just any mall. The Burlington Mall. The biggest, baddest mall in the Boston area. So generically American, it’s where they filmed Mall Cop. Roz drove, suspecting, correctly, that I’d have no idea how to get there.

We went early on a Saturday morning, while there were still parking spaces available. As she took the exit from the highway, the building loomed like a mutant queen bee, surrounded by acres of pavement that was quickly filling to capacity with drone-like cars, their occupants in a frenzy of feeding the beast with currency and removing the endless waste products. Maybe more like a parasite, a giant fat, sucking leech, bleeding—

Get a grip, will you? Roz said as she pulled into a space. Had I said that out loud? It’s a mall, not some allegory for the destruction of the planet.

See? No power of observation.

Freezing rain and sleet coated the cars as we stepped out into a thin layer of slush. We began at Sears, which, in retrospect, I thought was brilliant. Roz soon saw the error in her plan as I stood, mesmerized, surrounded by garden tools. I reached for a gleaming blade.

Step away from the wall, Roz said, firmly grabbing my arm.

But . . . bypass pruners. My gaze danced along the display. Loppers . . . on sale . . .

Without letting go she dragged me from the hardware section. Still somewhat dazed, I let her lead me through the store. She muttered under her breath as we passed racks filled with garish dresses in orange and lime green, blew by shelves of handbags the size of seat cushions, and wove among the preppy Land’s End displays. Nah. Uh uh. Nope. I looked at her, puzzled. C’mon, she said. And we headed into the maw of the mall.

The clamor of American commerce hit me like a shock wave. Bells jangled, Muzak warbled, children cried.

Over here, Roz said, raising her voice to be heard.

We retreated into a jewelry store. A hush fell over us. The harsh fluorescent lights of the mall gave way to subdued, dramatic presentations over glass display cases filled with the shimmering result of Third World slave labor. I wandered among the glittery goods. I didn’t wear jewelry other than a watch, a Timex I usually had to replace every couple of years because I forget and reach into a bucket of water or run it through the laundry by mistake. Here were rows and rows of watches, for ladies, gentlemen, and even Disney timepieces for little princesses. More rows of necklaces, bracelets, and rings with stones of astonishing shapes, colors, and sizes. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. I felt like Dorothy, stunned by the Emerald City.

Overwhelmed, I turned to Roz. Help me out, here. What would you buy Zoey?

Roz spun a rack of gold and silver necklaces. God, kid, we’ve been married for eight years now. We don’t even buy gifts anymore.

I looked at her in horror. What? Why are we here? This was your idea, remember?

She smiled innocently, but if we had been anywhere other than a fancy jewelry store, she’d have stuck her tongue out at me. Betrayed, I turned back to the display case.

May I help you? A young woman materialized behind the counter. Her pale face gleamed, her shiny blonde hair pulled tight into a ponytail. All the better to show off her elaborate dangling earrings and a shiny necklace draped over deep cleavage revealed by the plunging neckline of her simple black blouse. A gold, plastic nametag identified her as Isabella. I wondered if that was really her name. She looked more like a Wanda.

Just browsing, I said, trying to avoid staring at her cleav—, er, jewels. Roz pinched me.

We’re looking for a nice gift, Roz said. Earrings, bracelet . . . She looked at me for some guidance. I shrugged.

For the next hour, Isabella presented assorted sparkly things. Each time, she carefully set the item on a black velvet mat accompanied by a look that said, touch this and you die. I remained unimpressed.

I don’t know what she likes, I protested.

Isabella arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Mother, aunt?

Girlfriend, Roz said, engrossed in a brooch. I felt myself blush. Not because she’d just outed me, but because I still wasn’t used to that term. I had a girlfriend. I sighed. That seemed hopelessly high school.

Ah, Izzy cooed. I felt the nickname appropriate for someone I was spending so much time with. How serious? Diamond serious, gold serious, or just silver serious?

I stared at her. I didn’t know there were categories.

She smiled enigmatically.

I cleared my throat and glanced down into the case at neatly aligned rows of diamond rings. Tethered to each was a small white label. Most were face down, hiding the prices, but I spotted one flipped over. It lay upside down and was handwritten, but clearly showed four digits.

I don’t think I can afford diamond serious, I said quietly.

Roz shook her head. Unless you’re ready to propose, stick to gold or silver. And no rings. The size of the box alone will give her ideas.

My stomach clenched. Propose? Ideas?

I settled on a gold chain, more to reward Izzy for her patience than from any confidence that I’d found The Gift.

Roz and I headed back into the mall and made our way down the main thoroughfare. In the time that we’d been in the jewelry store, the place had become vastly more crowded. Harried mothers pushed strollers, bored fathers carried sleeping children and bursting shopping bags, clutches of teenage girls walked together, texting or chatting into cell phones, each