My Short Story, "Madrid."

 

Copyright Glo Lewis 9/4/2023

 

Dear Readers of My Blog, 💖

 

I have decided to share my short story, "Madrid," with you. Here it is below (As usual, God bless, and I'll be in touch soon):

 

Madrid

 

Copyright Glo Lewis 9/4/2023

 

 

Incoming jets, making their descent, roared overhead, filling up the robin’s-egg blue sky. “Senora Americana, why do you not sit in the vehicle?” asked the driver, a young and robust Spaniard, through the open windows, from behind the wheel of the limo. He had parked on the airport esplanade in Madrid, awaiting the plane, which was late. 

“Turn the air on, and I will!” Olivia Lemon, the twenty-six-year-old American, yelled over her shoulder. With a Newsweek, she fanned herself and her baby, who was asleep in the crook of her arm, the crackling pages wafting stifling air across their faces. She stood on the passenger side of the silver limousine that she had rented for the day. Her legs felt tired and tingly. She wanted to lean against the car, and now poked one of the doors, instantly pulling back her index finger from the fiery metal. Earlier, she had brushed her platinum hair into a ponytail and pulled it through the rear opening in her baseball cap. It hung down her back like an Appaloosa’s tail and itched through her sopping shirt. She and the baby both wore white hats, shirts, and shorts. She thrust the magazine under her arm, removed the child’s cotton burping towel from his bare legs, and wiped sweat from her neck and underneath the infant’s brown hair that curled out from the rim of his hat. 

“I have already explained the company policy, Senora. It is over 100 degrees today. To run the air conditioner in such a temperature overheats the car when we are not moving.” 

“Oh my gosh! I am paying you! You should do as I say. I’m going to report you!”

“I am the president of the company, Senora. You cannot report me.” 

“So you claim. We’ll just see about that! It’s hot as hell in there!” 

Someone was proceeding down the esplanade. Olivia raised her dark glasses for a moment, squinting under the bill of her hat against the sun. She re-covered her baby’s legs with the towel, then pulled the Newsweek from under her arm, and waved it out ahead of her. “That’s my friend. Just wait,” she called back to the driver. She strolled toward the older woman in the bright day, the magazine clutched in her moist palm. “It’s me! Over here!”

The older blonde woman smiled and strode across the tarmac toward Olivia. She was tall and tan and wore pale blue shorts and white sandals. She struggled with her bag, switching the long strap from one bare shoulder to the other. “Compadre!” 

“Hi!”   

When they reached each other, they hugged. “You brought baby Michael. How lovely.” She stroked the glistening pink cheek of the child’s face with her thumb. She sniffed, a nostril going up. “He smells ripe.”

“He needs a diaper change, but I finally got him to sleep. How was your flight?”

“Wonderful. They had open seats in first class, so they let some of us move up. I had champagne over France!”

“I thought we agreed that you would fly coach, so as not to attract attention.”

“But free first class— who can resist? Anyway, the big stuff is what matters.”

“Hmmm.” They turned and walked toward the limousine that shimmered like mirrors in the waves of heat. Olivia licked her dry, salty lips. “The driver’s being a real dickhead.”            

“How so?”

“He won’t turn on the cooling system until the car’s moving. We’re sweating like ox out here waiting for you.”

“I believe the term is ‘oxen.’ Do oxen sweat?”

“I want to report him, but he says he’s the president of the company.” Olivia jerked her head. “My lucky day!”

The older woman looked around at the majestic purple hills simmering in the summer. “Did you score?” she whispered. She took Olivia’s arm, slowing her down. “Be careful how you answer-- the driver’s looking right at us.” 

“Don’t worry. Everything’s cool.” Around Michael’s limp body, Olivia unstuck her fingers from the magazine, rolled it into a tube, and smacked her palm with it for emphasis.

“Don’t toy with me, girlfriend. Did you score the blow?”

Olivia stared hard at the driver as they walked, her high-heeled sandals clicking on the brown tarmac. She felt annoyed to the point of rage. Her face felt flush and prickly. Under her shirt, perspiration ran in rivulets between her breasts, saturating the underwire of her bra. He was the cause of this discomfort! A male chauvinist! If she was hooked up right now, it would be tempting to jab him with a hot dose! Into his heart!

“Hey,” the older woman said, “tell me.” 

Olivia shook the magazine loose; it stuck to her fingers, popping noisily. She fanned herself to shield her words from the driver. “I got the blow, and I got the guns. Don’t worry, Mom. It’s all good.” Her voice sounded dry and gravelly to her ears. 

They arrived at the limo. The driver jumped out, his rumpled white shirt and black pants a blur as he scurried around opening the rear doors. The grandmother handed him the strap of her bag, and he sprinted to the back of the car, beeping the trunk with his key fob. A sirocco wind whipped up, rustling the leaves in a line of trees whose slender boughs waved jauntily outside the chain-link airport fence. The women climbed into the car and settled into the warm leather seats. They relaxed, cooing over the baby, who now cried out and kicked his chubby legs.

Shortly, the driver started the car and turned on the air, which rushed out in a noisy, swishing flourish. The windows rolled up and closed. “Back to your house, Senora?”

“Hey little man, how you doin’?” said Olivia, glancing at her son’s glittering dark eyes.

The grandmother nudged her. “The driver is speaking to you.”

Olivia looked up. “Yes, back to my house.” 

The grandma bent forward and pressed a button, rolling up the glass partition, separating them from earshot of the driver. She leaned back into the thick tan leather and lifted one of Michael’s tiny fingers. “Wouldn’t it be cute to get him a teeny weenie tattoo?” she said, as the limo circled the tarmac and headed out toward the wide avenue.

“You know, it would,” said Olivia, lifting the visor of her hat. “He can take over this operation when he’s bilingual and can say ‘blow’ in two languages.” The women laughed. Olivia felt a stab of guilt. “Poor baby. I’m a terrible mama.”

 

 

The End