Megan Wong's Blog: May 2018

As much as I rage against short stories, I have had to write several in the past few months. (Something about professors finding them easier to grade when you're taking a writing course). Ah well, we can't have everything...

This never made it to a workshop. I scrapped it in exchange for something I loved more, but I still thought this one deserved some attention so I have decided to share it with y'all and I hope you enjoy.

The Cocoa Cloud

In the time of the Ancient Mesoamericans, a tree grew under the shade of the rainforest, with the heat of the ever-present sun, and thirst-quenching rain. Clinging pods in shades of amber, honey, and Grade B maple syrup contained beans that would be transformed into a substance so revered it was assumed to have mystical properties. In those early days it was made into a frothy drink from the combination of cool water, sweet vanilla, sticky honey, hot chili pepper, and the most important piece: the beans from the cacao plant. The Mayans worshipped it. The Aztecs valued it. The conquistadors sweetened it.

It transformed and the people that tasted it were seduced. An invigorating stimulus, a mood enhancer, an aphrodisiac, chocolate slipped into hearts and minds. Although, the ritualistic consumption passed on with the days of sacrifices and chants, chocolate remained. It became a staple. A symbol of more than luxury, wealth, or power, something beyond all of those and more extensive. A symbol of desire.

In the modern day, even desire has been mentioned less and less, it is commonplace and no longer hearkens to the strong emotions and daring actions of people. The world has become subdued, sleeping in its haze of technology. Ancient traditions fade and are replaced, but in one shop, one little chocolaterie, there are meetings. Once a month, a gathering of six strangers sit and talk and discuss the fading ideas of the world.

It is February. The air chilled with the remnants of winter and the frozen ground awaiting the return of things in bloom. The sky darkens with clouds rolling across in a company that obscures the moon. A street of history, a shard of the past, that goes nowhere is almost a ghost. This fragmented street surrounded by woods and only accessible by crossing over a bridge from a gravel lot, has become one of the last refuges for a few desperate souls. All because of one shop.

The chocolate shop on Bean St. is only ten years old, but has integrated itself so well that it seems to have been open since the street’s creation. All of the shops stand in two silent lines facing each other and protect the last of the fading businesses. A movie theatre, a record store, a general store, a hardware store, a flower shop, a barbershop, and a chocolate shop. Between the hardware store and the barbershop sits this tantalizing partner to desire. Quietly squeezed in between the hair and wood shavings. The dark wood exterior is lit by the streetlamps that mark each store. Ruby red shades fold out over the windows in an attempt to protect the wares. Above those a matching red sign embellished with a curling script. The Cocoa Cloud.

A last patron hurries to the shop door on this Friday evening, a week before Valentine’s day. Her knee high boots pound against the concrete and her short skirt is lifted as she strides to the door. A tiny bell above the door sounds like angel wings as the door is opened. A cool breath of air sweeps in too, but the warm lighting provides a semblance of heat. A woman with pink flushed cheeks and drooping eyes takes the last bar stool, folding her hands together as she leans with mild exhaustion on the mahogany wood of the counter. The glowing display case cuts perpendicular to the counter and shows assorted handmade treats, liqueurs, mendiants, truffles, florentines, and more. Behind her, closer to the door and shop windows, is a table piled high with plastic cones and tinfoiled chocolates, the coverings are lurid pink, passionate red, and garish gold. These are for the young lovers, the anniversaries, the heartbreaks. The chocolates are made with milk and sweetened to pure sugar flavor. They tempt the taste buds and stimulate energy, but lack the subtle power of handmade chocolates.

The woman with pink cheeks orders a coffee. That’s two sugars with cream please. She rubs her hands together and looks around the room. There are seven places to sit and seven people. Behind the counter is the shopkeeper, Mrs. Joanna Harte, she has owned the store since its inception and lives with her husband of twelve years and two daughters. She prefers to make the chocolates herself, but provides the mass produced ones for the tourists and couples. Each person in the shop is someone she knows and has invited. She started the meetings a year after the shop first opened. Her blonde hair is neatly braided and swings behind her as she makes the coffee.

Sitting next to the pink-cheeked woman is Martin Caselli. He has an ingrained habit of rubbing his bald spot when anxious. A thick mustache bristles over his thin lips as he orders the egg-shaped liqueurs. The bright white full length apron flows over his knees and is stained with dirt. He owns the flower shop on Bean St. and met Mrs. Harte when she moved to town. Mr. Caselli has been unhappily married for twenty years and prefers time in his shop to time with his wife.

Beside him, leaning over the counter to delicately eat a chocolate raspberry tart, is Elisa Ryder. She still wears her navy work scrubs and her hands are chapped with cold. A small sag in her lips and eyes shows the sadness for the death of one of her patients. She works for hospice and drives to each patient’s home. She knows they’re all dying, but she can’t seem to let them go. This week it was an eighty year old man with Alzheimer’s, who shouted at all his other caretakers, but liked her. She brushes her fork across the plate, consuming all of the creamy chocolate before she tries the tartness of the raspberries.

The barstool beside her is for Mrs. Harte. It is closest to the back hallway and the supplies behind the counter. Opposite this is the stage, a mere five inches off the ground it adds a little height so that a performer is just enough higher than the audience. With his legs crossed, Jeffery Sailer, poet and traveler, sits on the wooden stool. His rumpled salmon shirt is untucked and he wears faded blue jeans that are ragged at the ankles. He holds a small china plate with whirling white indents on the edges, a mendiant covered in berries and nuts is pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. His eyes are blueberries in the lighting, but the curling nest of his hair shows the boyish, disorganization and carefreeness that brought him to all corners of the world before the age of twenty five.

Two armchairs of a forest green knit are the last of the shop’s seats. Cameron Beckett sits in one with her white hair positioned perfectly on her head. She grips a sturdy wooden cane between her feet and fingers. Balanced on an armrest, on top of a napkin, is a plate with two truffles. Her eyes are clouded with memories. She has a son who takes care of her. He drove her to Bean St. but couldn’t stay because of business. His cellphone pressed against his ear while his watch ticked impatiently on his wrist. He left as soon as she walked into the shop.

In the last chair with his fingertips pressed together in contemplation, sits Dr. Virgil Wendelken. He is dressed in a cocoa brown suit, a felt hat, of the same color, rests on an armrest. Professor at the local community college, he could have taught at a place like Yale or Harvard, but chose to settle here and found his way to Bean St. He savors the simple dark chocolate squares studded with almond slivers. He enjoys these meetings has enjoyed them since the beginning. Each one provides him to stretch his philosophical mind and preach the knowledge he knows by heart.

The stool, currently occupied by the woman with flushed cheeks, always has a new occupant. Someone who comes once and never again, someone new and wanting comfort, especially during the season of love.

Mrs. Harte serves this woman, young broken hearted Anna Padgett, her coffee, and a truffle on-the-house. With the last customer served and the hour of seven drawing near, she takes her seat on the barstool. For herself, a plate with a chocolate covered orange, she expertly smashes it and the slices flower out into pieces. She adjusts the black apron around her waist and the meeting begins.

“What is desire?” Jeffery asks. He sets his plate down on the stage and straightens, drawing his legs closer to the stool. “Since this is February and the commercialized aspect of love in the form of flowers, chocolates, and other gifts is in full swing, I thought it might benefit us all to reflect, not on love, but desire.”

“Desire is a construct of love,” Dr. Wendelken says.

“Or love is a construct of desire,” Mr. Caselli mutters. He takes a bite of his chocolates and lets the liqueur wet his mouth. He often likes to mutter about Dr. Wendelken’s ideas, but rarely challenges him forthright.

Dr. Wendelken continues holding the floor. His spine straightens and his eyes sparkle as he regards his audience. “Desire is merely an idea proposed to explain urges. Freud would have associated it with the ID. Do you know what that is? It is basically a term he applied to the part of ourselves that seeks instant gratification. Desire is uncontrollable and that is why the old philosophers determined that it is something that interferes and keeps people from their goals.”

“Desire motivates us,” Mrs. Beckett croaks out. She wipes the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “It was the desire of my parents to bring us to America for a better life. They raised us here because they wanted us to not be afraid.”

“Perhaps desire is only biological,” Elisa says hesitantly. “Your parents were concerned for your survival and wanted this for you, but a desire to survive is an instinctive trait.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Wendelken says, capitalizing on the silence that followed. “There is a biological basis for emotions. Desire is an excitation of the body.”

“And what causes that?” Mr Caselli murmurs.

“Many things,” Dr. Wendelken replies, showing he is capable of hearing some of Mr. Caselli’s comments. “A stimulus of sorts, anything that the individual wants to have. This could be an object or a person.”

“In my time,” Mrs. Beckett says, tapping her cane on the floor. “We associated desire with the heart and thought that it was a product of strong love. I met my husband in secondary school. He held the door open for me and carried my books. It was love at first sight.”

“Tonight is not about love, Mrs. Beckett,” Jeffery says with a smile. “It’s about desire.”

“And what is the difference between them,” Anna butts in, turning away from the counter. “They’ll both break your heart.”

“Desire is wanting something or someone, but love is feeling attached to someone. Desire is selfish, love is caring,” Dr. Wendelken answers. He presses his fingertips together, leaning back in his seat.

“Is it selfish to want something,” Mr. Caselli interjects. “I have around a hundred people that come to my shop before Valentine’s day and they’re all desiring someone. They want roses because they are beautiful and only red roses. They buy bouquets and arrangements all with the hopes that the person they desire will in turn desire them. These are the young couples though. The older couples want reminders of their youth. They want a sweet gesture, but instead of the favorite flower of their partner, they buy the roses too. It’s the same everywhere. What do you think, Mrs. Harte?”

“I think they just want to give something and be appreciated for it. Isn’t that what all of us crave? For someone to appreciate who we are and love us no matter the situation. I think that is the basis of all human motivation,” she replies.

“It was certainly my husband’s motivation,” Mrs. Beckett says. She taps the floor with her cane again as if everyone’s attention isn’t already on her. “He never did a thing unless he thought I’d compliment him or give him something. My son is the same way. Baked in the same mould I guess. It’s his business, he says, but I know the truth. He doesn’t want the world to take him for granted. He doesn’t want to think that all that time he spends in his office and on his phone is a waste.”

“I think your son has the right idea,” Dr. Wendelken says to her. “He wants to be remembered and no matter your religious beliefs, everyone wants that as well. If we are going to live, then it seems that we should make use of our lives and be remembered.”

“Not just remembered,” Mr. Caselli mutters. He turns his head to gaze longingly at the window. The lamplight shines enough to show the sidewalk and empty street.

“What’s the point of this,” Anna grumbles, crossing her arms. “Why are we discussing this anyway.” She holds herself tightly as everyone stares.

“We’re trying to find a little comfort,” Elisa says. Her voice barely reaches everyone’s ears and Mrs. Beckett leans toward her. “You’re welcome to share whatever you want. It’s a free space. Mrs. Harte is kind enough to organize this. It’s...nice.”

“It’s very nice,” Jeffery agrees. “I enjoy these meetings because I get to think about things that are just passed over in everyday life. We’ve discussed topics from dreams to mathematics.”

“It allows me to ascertain the view of others,” Dr. Wendelken says with a nod. He touches his pointer fingers to his temples. “The mind is a wonderous thing.”

“Why did you decide to come?” Mrs. Beckett asks. She turns to peer inquisitively at Anna. Her gray-blue eyes open wide with interest.

“Mrs. Harte,” Anna says, gesturing at the shopkeeper. “She invited me. Told me that it might help me feel better, but I don’t see how talking about desire is going to help me feel better.”

“It depends on what you’re trying to gain,” Jeffery said.

Anna uncrosses her arms to grab the edges of the stool. Her fingers curl around the seat and she bites her lip as she leans forward. “My boyfriend broke up with me. He did it through a text message.” She rolls her eyes with a half-shrug even as her eyes swim. “So cliche, I guess, it’s nothing though. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“There are always new objects of desire,” Dr. Wendelken says delicately. He taps the armrest with his fingers. “The heart is resilient. Desire may be seen as a kind of bondage by some philosophers, but it is also a release of emotion associated around one thing or one person.”

“The Doctor is right,” Jeffery says. “Desire can be focused and it can shift its focus, for various reasons.”

“Reasons,” Mr. Caselli mutters, tapping his foot. “Too many reasons.”

“The heart is fickle,” Dr. Wendelken says. He shrugs his shoulders, lifting his hands in a blasé manner. “It makes sense in the animal kingdom that they look for the most suitable partner to mate with, for successful offspring, which is why it is unsurprising, as I’m sure you all know, that a partner is not completely faithful.”

“That’s a rather downhearted view,” Mrs. Beckett says. “In my day, we had to be faithful to each other. It was looked down upon otherwise so people stayed married. My husband was with me until his death. We worked through our problems, although I should have known I’d outlive him.”

“Statistically a woman is more likely to outlive a man,” Dr. Wendelken murmurs.

“But back to the reasons for desire,” Anna interjects. “Why do we desire certain things or people?” She looks down at her boots, lifting her legs for a second. “Especially if they’re wrong for us.”

“Specific traits, things that we value,” Dr. Wendelken replies.

“Beauty,” Mr. Caselli says.

“Faithfulness,” Mrs. Beckett says. Her eyes land on Dr. Wendelken with a defiant expression.

“We desire what we admire,” Jeffery says. He grins, picking up his plate. “And what I admire are mendiants. Mrs. Harte, may I have another?”

“Of course, Jeffery,” she says, getting to her feet. “Would anyone else like anything?”

“A coffee, please,” Dr. Wendelken says. His habitual pose of pressing his finger tips together returns as he sits in repose. A faint crease pinches between his eyes.

“I shouldn’t,” Mrs. Beckett says, “but one more can’t hurt. I’ll have another truffle.”

“Elisa? Mr. Caselli?” Mrs. Harte asks.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Elisa replies, wiping carefully at the corners of her mouth.

“Do you still have that tea?” Mr. Caselli asks, turning to face the counter.

“The lemon one. Yes, I have it right here.” She pulls out a silver tin and places it on the counter. She bustles around behind the counter with familiar ease she puts the orders together. “Here you are, Jeffery,” she says as she pushes a plate with another mendiant onto the counter. He rises from his stool to grab it and smiles at Elisa.

“Mendiants,” she says, “I’d never heard of them until I came to this shop.”

“It’s very popular in France,” Jeffery replies. “The different combinations are wonderful, I really enjoy the plump raisins.”

“Perhaps I’ll try one next time,” she says.

“Would you like to now, I can break this in half.” He picks up the mendiant and starts to press.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, pushing her hair back. “I already had a tarte and…”

The mendiant breaks shooting a walnut into the air. She jumps as it lands on the counter. He laughs, deftly returning it to the plate. His lips spread in a smile as he holds the halves out.

“Choose your piece,” he says.

She hesitates. Her hand held halfway between herself and the plate. “Thank you.” She takes a bite, cupping her other hand beneath her chin.

Jeffery returns to his stool and Mrs. Harte places a coffee on the counter. “Dr. Wendelken,” she calls. He gets up from his meditation and takes it, wrapping his fingers around the cup. “Your tea will be ready in a moment, Mr. Caselli.” She cleans the countertop with a cloth in broad strokes then passes a steaming mug to him. Once she returns to her seat, everyone turns toward the stage again.

“So,” Jeffery says. He draws it out lingering on the sound. “Desire.”

“I have a story that a young man told me in my shop,” Mr. Caselli announces. “A student at the university. He bought a bouquet of tulips as I remember. He was very nervous because he wanted to tell one of his classmates how he felt. He had difficulty making a decision at first, he’d pick up a bouquet then set it down. He had studied with this person for three years before this day when he decided to make his feelings known.”

“What happened?” Anna asks.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Caselli says simply. “He never came back. Still the length of time that he kept this desire secret, three years of his life.”

“It’s not as long as a lifetime,” Mrs. Beckett chimes in.

“Long enough,” Anna mutters. Her fists clench near her stomach as she drops her gaze to the floor again. “Time moves slowly.”

“I think it moves quickly. Time passes us by,” Mrs. Beckett says.

Dr. Wendelken coughs and all eyes fall on him. “We have avoided thus far discussing that desire is destructive. I think it is time that we talk about it.”

“Must we,” Mrs. Beckett asks. She nestles into the chair with a sigh. “So many negative things these days.”

“I am sorry to insist,” Dr. Wendelken replies, “but we cannot understand the entirety of it, if we don’t take into account its shadow.”

“We dipped briefly into it,” Jeffery acknowledges, “but by all means. You have the floor.”

“Well, it comes to this. Desire is destructive because it makes us lose sight of better judgement. We react on impulses instead of thinking. It makes a person long for something or someone to the point that they may abandon the life they know. The ruin of a man, or woman, depends on their control over their impulses. I have long thought that strong discipline over oneself needs to be taught across all curriculums.”

“But doesn’t that mean you would shut yourself off from yourself?” Elisa asks. Her head tilts as she gazes at Dr. Wendelken. “If you control your impulses, then are you still being true to yourself?”

“I would say you’re not,” Jeffery comments. “If I might repeat your earlier statement, Doctor, but a person cannot be whole without their shadow, including their feelings of desire. It is necessary for us to experience it, whatever it may cause us.”

“That is a romantics argument,” Dr. Wendelken replies.

“Is it so bad to be a romantic,” Jeffery pursues. His face intent with color rising in his cheeks. “I might have my heart broken a million times, but at least I know I still have a heart left to break.”

“I agree with Jeffery,” Mr. Caselli says with a nod. He briefly touches his moustache. “The destructive side of desire only makes the reward sweeter. It is like that saying about the thorns of a rose.”

“Yes, but what I want to know is the full extent of destructive desire on a man,” Dr. Wendelken presses.

“Well, that’s easy,” Jeffery answers, “it’s complete desolation. Emotionally drained and hopelessly enthralled in a state of impoverished personality, this person would cease to be themselves. Their only focus on the object of their desire.”

Mrs. Beckett sighs. “Have we lingered on that enough now? Are you satisfied, Dr. Wendelken?”

He nods, creating that tent with his fingers. “Yes, we can move on to lighter topics, if it pleases you, Mrs. Beckett.”

“How about everyone shares their happiest time of desire,” Jeffery asks, “I’ll go first.” He adds as no one speaks. “When I met my girlfriend, Samantha, I was in England studying politics and thinking I knew the direction of my life. It was my first year of college and she changed everything. We went to Westminster Abbey and the Globe, so many places and she showed me the arts which I’d forgotten. She changed my direction and I wanted her by my side.” His voice broke and he passed a hand over his eyes for a second. “She was so adventurous, always wanted to do exciting things, and she went rafting. The water was too swift...but I still remember how it felt to want someone to be by my side and how good she made me feel.”

Mrs. Beckett wipes at her eyes. “Oh Jeffery, well you all know my story, but I know that such a good looking boy as you will find someone.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Beckett. I hope so.” Jeffery bows his head. “Who wants to share next?”

“I will,” Dr. Wendelken says, “I chose my career with care because I desired to be involved in the study of new and old knowledge. It has always been my wish learn what I could and my happiest time was when the desire and time paid off. I received tenure at my first university and was able to continue my passion.”

“My two daughters are my heart’s desire,” Mrs. Harte says, “they make me smile and laugh. They’re four and six, and everything they do amazes me. I remember coming into the kitchen and finding them playing with the pots and pans. They were using them as hats and crawling into the cabinets. The smiles on their faces always warm my heart.”

“I miss the time when my son was a boy and needed me to walk him into the classroom for school,” Mrs. Beckett reminisces. “He never seems to have time anymore.”

“Time,” Mr. Caselli mutters. “I desired to open my flower shop and I prefer taking care of them more than anything else. They are so beautiful and I raise them from seedlings to when they blossom. It is rewarding.”

“I guess I cherish the time with my family,” Elisa says. Her eyes trace the ceiling and are filled with the overhead lights. “The best times are when we’re all together and I desire those moments.”

Everyone turns to Anna. She fidgets and grips the stool again. “I don’t really have desires, not like all of you.”

“Whatever you desire is okay, you don’t have to compare it to ours,” Jeffery tells her. His voice is soft and her shoulders visibly relax.

“Well, I guess that I want to be courageous. You know like the people in the movies when they’re facing down bad guys. They’re always so brave and I just want to be like that too.”

“Courage,” Dr. Wendelken tests the word in the air. “Interesting. I think that should be the topic for our March meeting. What do you think, Mrs. Harte?”

“That sounds like a good idea, Dr. Wendelken, I’ll make a note of it,” she says as she rises to her feet. “I suppose this is a good place to end tonight’s meeting. Thank you all for coming.”

Everyone thanks her as well. A chorus of gratuitous remarks sail through the air and everyone is feeling good. Dr. Wendelken offers his arm to Mrs. Beckett and helps her from her chair. Anna hesitates then leaves with her boots clicking on the floorboards. Mr. Caselli quietly walks out with a last nod to Mrs. Harte. The bell rings for both of them in farewell.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Jeffery says, gathering the plates and napkins from their resting places. Elisa helps, moving the cups onto the counter.

“Until next month, then,” Dr. Wendelken says to Mrs. Harte and she smiles.

“I look forward to your company, Dr. Wendelken.”

He places his hat on his head and together he and Mrs. Beckett exit the shop. A sound as pure as glass rings from the bell and they are shadows in the lamplight.

“Thank you both,” Mrs. Harte says, “but you don’t need to do this.”

“Oh I couldn’t leave this to you alone,” Jeffery replies with a wink as he brings the plates to the other side of the counter. “My mother would tan my behind for leaving the dishes out.” He helps her clean the dishes while Elisa wipes down the counter.

“I have your mother to thank then,” Mrs. Harte says. “I’ve got it now though.”

Elisa returns the rag to her and Jeffery steps out from behind the counter. “Thank you, Mrs. Harte,” Elisa says. “I really enjoy these meetings.”

“We’re lucky to have you with us,” Mrs. Harte replies. “You are always welcome here.” She glances outside. “It looks like the clouds decided to open up after all. Will you both be alright?”

“I have an umbrella,” Jeffery says. “Another one of my mother’s rules. Always be prepared.”

Elisa blushes. “I don’t, but it’s not too far to my car. I’ll be fine.”

“Nonsense,” Jeffery says. “You can share mine.” He gestures to the door where a large umbrella sits to the side. He picks it up and pauses with his hand resting on the door handle.

“If you’re sure,” Elisa says, brushing at her hair.

“I insist,” he responds with a bow.

He holds the door open and together they walk out. His umbrella unfolds like a sheltering wing over them both. The rain pounds upon the concrete flooding through the fragmented street and the shop door closes. Water splashes and whirls in rivers and streams in endless currents. The tiny bell jingles one last time with tender entreaties to the deepening rush of the night.

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