From: avjohn@iiasa.ac.at (Aviott  JOHN)
Subject: short story
Organization: IIASA, Laxenburg, Austria
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL6]
Date: Mon, 16 Nov 1992 07:43:34 GMT


avjohn@iiasa.iiasa.ac.at

SHORT STORY
by 
   Aviott JOHN
(published in Vienna Life Magazine, 1985)


It was one of those typical foehn-ridden days,
(foehn: a warm Alpine wind) days; a sudden steep 
rise in temperature and blue skies after so many gray winter days;
and she felt an ingrate for resenting the drastic change.  What was
there to complain about sunny skies?  But there was.  An oppression
in the clear air and she knew the migraine headache was not too far
away, announcing its impending arrival by a faint throbbing at the
temples.  And this evening she'd arranged to meet with Hans at the
heurigen.  It was simply too bad; whenever she made plans for an
evening out with him, something turned up to spoil it.

The little flower shop was crowded with customers as she passed
by, the asters, gerbera and the nasturtiums gleaming from behind the
plate glass windows with a metallic, freshly-watered wetness.  The
crowd in the flower shop had spilt out into the street and there were
more people impatiently trying to push their way in.  There was
something odd here, and it took her a couple of minutes to realise
what it was.  All the customers in the flower shop were men.  What on
earth?  Of course, today was mother's day.  Well, didn't daughters
buy their mothers flowers too on mother's day?  Yes, but they didn't
leave it till the last moment.

Her eyes blurred with sudden tears as she thought of Hermann.
Before he left her for (peroxide) blonder pastures he had never
failed to bring her flowers on mother's day.  Flowers and a huge,
heart-shaped box of schokolade had been his contributions to the
preservation of their marriage.  She slowed down and examined her
image in the steamy window, pretending to admire the flowers.  She
was pleased with what she saw; a self assured woman in her
mid-forties with a touch of dissatisfaction, or was it loneliness? 
around her eyes.  She could imagine the appropriate advertisement in
the classified column of the local newspaper:  Attractive woman,
slim, chic, mature, financially independent; seeks companionship and
emotional security in long-term relationship with kind and thoughtful
male.

Hermann had been that kind of male in the beginning, but his head
was too quickly turned by the hungry young things that prowled the
streets of the city.

There were compensations to living alone.  She didn't have to
answer to anyone, not even to Hans, although he was possessive at
times. She had accepted his invitation to go to the heurigen that
evening.  Hans was sweet; although she knew that he enjoyed his
freedom and was not prepared to tie himself down into a steady
relationship with anyone.

It was a fine day and fine days had been so rare lately that in
spite of the premonition of migraine that lowered like an oppressive
cloud on the horizon, she walked to work instead of taking the tram. 
When she passed the fountain on the Michaelerplatz, she noticed that
the water had been turned on and the defecating pigeons temporarily
used the cobbled platz as a landing field.  On an impulse she kicked
with a well-shod foot at a pigeon that stood in her path.  The bird
lazily hopped out of her way, but a little old lady in a green loden
coat and the bag of bird feed in her hand scowled at her; the ugly,
hate-filled scowl of the passionate bird and animal lover who forgets
that humans have their needs and weaknesses too.  The scowl was
accompanied by low muttered curses aimed at 'diese junge leut', and
then with a second vicious glance, 'a' nimmer mehr so jung.'

The day passed in a blur.  The threatened migraine did not
materialize, and directly after work she took the 38 tram upto the
Leopoldsberg.  It was a pleasant walk from the end station to the
heurigen hidden away in a fold between the hills, like a smile on a
friendly, wrinkled face, where she'd arranged to meet Hans.  There
was still plenty of light and the air had that special exhilarating
quality of spring, as delicious as a low-calorie dessert you can feel
virtuous about having, that she walked longer than expected.  Hans
was already at the heurigen when she arrived.

He rose to greet her at the entrance to the garden; loose-limbed,
long-haired, casually clothed.  The momentary panic and love she
always felt on seeing him was a constriction in her throat and she
had no words of greeting, only dismay, for the black haired young
thing hung possessively onto his arm.  The young girl flashed a look
of nervous defiance, staking her claim at the outset.  So Hans too
will soon leave me, she thought with a touch of self-pity.  But the
moment of fear passed and Hans put his comforting, familiar arms
around her, thrusting a huge bunch of flowers at her.  'Happy
Mother's day, mother,' he said.
Newsgroups: alt.prose,talk.bizarre