Going South

by Jay O'Connell

About the Author: Jay O'Connell is a writer, artist, activist, human living in Cambridge MA with his wife, two kids, two cats, and eight zillion books. A graduate of Clarion West in the nineties, Jay quit writing for no earthly reason for over a decade but returned to fiction in 2012 with a bunch of shorts and novellas in Asimov’s, F&SF, Interzone, Analog, and other markets, fulfilling a life long dream. He blogs about his social media addiction and the creative process at www.jayoconnell.com.

Excerpt

I’ve picked a ringtone that reminds me of the metallic bell from when I was a kid. I get up to answer it. Probably a God damned robot. 

Ximena is putting dinner on the dining room table; meatloaf, soft green beans with bacon and real mashed potatoes. I love Ximena’s cooking but my guts can’t always take the heat. So we eat American three nights a week. A compromise. 

The caller ID reads Hugh Rection. I know who it is without the middle initial. It’s Neil, all breathless on the line. “You aren’t answering my texts.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “So?”

“We need to talk,” he says. 

“I’m eating dinner. It’s dinnertime.” Neil knows when I eat.  

“It’s important.”

“Give me an hour,” I say and hang up. I’m pissed. I am the one that calls. Not Neil. 

Ximena asks who it is, and I say it’s just Neil, who works in the jewelry supply business near the airport I bought ten years ago. I say he’s bugging me about going to a trade show.  

Ximena frowns and folds her arms around her midsection shifting her weight on one hip. Even frowning she’s so pretty it makes me ache. Neil used to bug me about the age difference until I joked about punching his lights out if he mentioned it again. Neil has a hard time figuring out when I’m joking.  

Ximena rearranges my thinning hair, her fingertips warm and soothing. “I hate when you’re away,” she says. I kiss her hand. I’ve gotten over not deserving her. Life isn’t fair.  

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