Pia’s Bio:

Pia Padukone is an aspiring author and a proud native of New York City, where most of her stories take place. A graduate of Stuyvesant High School and the London School of Economics, Pia entered the professional writing world as a copywriter for advertising agencies. She has written children’s books, which embrace the importance of growing up tolerant and understanding in a multicultural environment. Pia’s work is influenced by the world around her—observing interactions while running in Central Park, waiting on line in the grocery store, and those ever-engaging exchanges on the subway. Pia was a finalist in the Seventeen Magazine Fiction Writing Contest. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, triathlon-training, and discovering the endless hidden secrets of her city. Pia is thrilled to be a finalist in the WOW! Flash Fiction Contest.

Decaf

By Pia Padukone

Between the shower and her toenail clipping, Joyce barely took any time for herself. After toweling off and collecting the small crescents of nail from the bathroom floor, she combed her hair with her fingers. Her hairbrush was missing again and though she knew where it was, she didn’t want to risk a pre-breakfast argument with her daughter.

The wrap dress she had laid out the night before was on the armchair, covered by a sweaty pair of running shorts and a black Guns’n’Roses t-shirt with salt caking the neckline. Joyce picked up her husband’s sweaty running clothes with two fingers and dropped them into the hamper. She aimed her Chanel diffuser into the basket and tucked her pumps into her tote bag before taking the stairs two at a time into the kitchen.

This room was the warmest in the house in the cooler seasons. Her son insisted on warming his underwear and socks in the oven before being forced into the frigid tundra of Park Slope. His sister complained about health violations until Tim offered to buy his son a new pack of underwear each week to keep the peace.

“You just missed the kids,” Tim said, as Joyce pulled a mug out of the cupboard. “And we’re out of coffee.” He lowered his paper to reveal his eyes and winked at her. “I can drive you in this morning and we can stop at the drive-in Dunkin’.”

“No, that’s okay,” Joyce poured a glass of water and slid next to her husband.

“Lots going on this morning?”

“I thought I’d call in sick,” Tim said, folding the paper though not quite at the creases, just enough to make Joyce wince. She took the paper and reopened it, skimmed the headlines and folded it again, properly.

“Don't you have a deadline?”

“End of the week.”

“I thought you had to get those blueprints into the managing company by the afternoon.”

“I took those pricks off our client roster,” Tim said. “They were pains in the ass. I don’t need to deal with those kinds of people. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Such as?”

“Shed door is hanging off a hinge and I want to take the bike in for a tune up.”

“Are you sure those are priorities?” Joyce asked and then held her breath. She had read an article at the dentist, which explained how to effectively, non-confrontationally, communicate with your spouse. Number three on the top ten tips was Say it to yourself: Before you pass judgment on your loved one, say it in your head to determine whether you sound condescending, rude or irritated. Put yourself on the receiving end. If you yourself would feel offended by the question or the way you’ve phrased it, take a step back, rephrase it and then ask it again. Her last question would surely have offended Joyce herself.

Tim bent down to pick something off the ground. Had he heard her? She rephrased.

“Maybe you should finish the project through, at least for your portfolio. The preliminary sketches were really inspiring.”

Tim smiled and patted her hand. “I finished them. I emailed you a copy. Let me know what you think when you have a chance.”

There was nothing else to say.

“So. Do you want a ride in?”

“The train’s good. I can catch up on my reading. This book club is killing me. Shana is such a Nazi about finishing the book and cultivating thoughtful dialogue.”

“Maybe you should see things through too, honey.” Tim stood up and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Kettle, pot. Nice to meet you.” He shuffled out of the room in his slippers. Joyce heard him take the stairs two at a time and settle into his laptop chair. On her way to the sink, she caught a whiff of something sour. She sniffed the crook of her elbow. Tim’s sweat wafted off her. She pulled some air freshener out from the cupboard under the sink and sprayed her dress, enough to mask the scent.

***