Missed Connection: NYC Ferry Astoria Route

I was the guy on the upper deck with the meat and cheese | Fiction

Hey there.

Hope you had a nice couple weeks.

Before you read this, I want you to know its 100% fiction.

It was a short story I submitted to the Flash Fiction Challenge (1,000 words) by NYC Midnight. They do short stories, screenplays, poems, and other contests, too. On Friday at midnight, they give you a prompt and you have until Sunday at midnight to submit your story. It’s then judged alongside thirty-something other writers in your group who wrote to the same prompt. Top scores move forward to the next round until there’s a winner. I’ve had mixed experiences with NYC Midnight, but it’s a lot of fun to see what I can accomplish in such a short amount of time.

Anyways:

—My genre was drama.

—My item to include was a charcuterie board.

—My setting was the ferry.

I placed 4th in my group with this story:

MISSED CONNECTION: NYC FERRY ASTORIA ROUTE

I was the guy on the upper deck with the meat and cheese.

You were the woman who slid to the right, and asked what I was doing with such a comically large charcuterie board. “I have a big meeting later,” I said, taking a seat next to you, “but my interns are sick. I had to grab the apps myself.”

You said that was bullshit.

I said, “Try this prosciutto with some gouda and jam, then tell me it’s bullshit.”

You smiled. Your grabbed a thin slice of ham, and a sliver of gouda, and stopped halfway. You asked if I would get in trouble. I smiled and said, “I live for trouble.” You laughed, took a bite, and made a face like you were having an orgasm. You said your name was Isabelle. I said, “I’m Felix.”

Then there was a pause.

You smirked. You asked how I knew you had a weakness for charcuterie.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I replied. “Who wouldn’t love a world of possibilities on one plate?” You said you had never thought of it like that. Then you called me a nerd. We laughed for a while, and I asked you to go on a date with me.

Another pause.

“Somewhere on dry land?” I added.

I could hear the word “Yes!” on tip of your tongue, but you said nothing. Instead, you looked down at a tan line wrapped around your finger. You said you were busy, but if I ever found myself again on the ferry with a gigantic charcuterie board, you would happily help me eat it.

Then you left.

—

The next day, I went back to the upper deck with a fresh plate of meat and cheese. You were sitting in the same seat. Your eyes got wide when you saw me, like you couldn’t believe I actually did it. We sat there, eating and talking so much that you missed your stop. When you noticed, you didn’t panic. You just shrugged, and leaned close.

“Meet in the downstairs bathroom in five,” you whispered.

So, I did.

And that was first time I saw you.

Like, really saw you.

There were bruise all over your collarbone. You tried to cover them up with make-up, but I could see them clear as day. My heart became a jackhammer.

“Who did this to my Isabelle!?” I asked.

You put your hand over my mouth and stumbled through some story about being on a treadmill. You said your shoelaces came undone and you tripped. I wanted to call you a liar, but you changed the subject. You said you wanted to keep seeing me, but only on the condition that we never reveal our full names, our jobs, our phone numbers, our addresses. No personal information whatsoever. The only place we were allowed to meet was the ferry.

I couldn’t believe it.

On one hand, I had never been happier.

On the other, I thought this little thing we had going was the beginning of something real. I wanted to tell you that, but I didn’t want to lose you, so instead I just smiled, nodded, kept my mouth shut.

I should have told you the truth:

I should have told you that the first time I saw you was one year, three months, four days ago.

You were sitting cross-legged on the upper deck.

It was raining and your hair was wet and your dress had white flowers on it.

I wanted to talk to you but didn’t know what to say. So, I kept my distance. After a few weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about being with you, the places you and I would go, the breakfast we would make each other in the morning, the stupid things we would fight about, and the great sex we would have to make up for it.

After a few months, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I stood up.

I went over to you.

I was getting ready to tell you my name, but your phone started to ring, so I panicked and sat down behind you. I heard you say you would be late to pick “them” up at school, that Saturday was a better day for pickleball, and that four hundred degrees was the perfect temperature to reheat leftover eggplant parmesan.

You were married.

And I respected that.

But then something changed in your voice.

You got quiet for a while.

You started flinching, stuttering, like the person on the other line was talking over you, maybe even yelling at you.

You hung up the phone.

Your bottom lip started to shake.

You had this numb, empty look on your face.

I wanted to come over and console you, but I thought that might be strange. Then you reached into your purse. You pulled out some travel magazine. “The Western Europe Edition,” it said. Your smile grew every time you turned the page. It gave me an idea:

Charcuterie board.

German meat.

Italian cheese.

French bread.

I thought I could bring Western Europe to you through food. So, I did some shopping and made up a little story.

(You were right, by the way: I was full of “bullshit.”)

There was no big meeting. No sick interns. Just a lonely commuter on the Astoria Route who wanted to share fresh charcuterie with you on the upper deck of the NYC Ferry every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday between the hours of 5:46pm and 6:22pm—living the dream life he had always imagined for himself.

And then we stopped at East 90th.

Every day, I would have to wake up from that dream. I would watch you leave, knowing you were returning to him. And I’d just sit there, thinking, thinking, thinking, until one day, I realized our little secret was no longer enough.

I found you on Google.

It took ten minutes.

I found your full name, home address, and everything else you never wanted to tell me. After that I went straight to your apartment to tell your son-of-a-bitch husband that you didn’t belong to him—you belonged to me.

But he never answered the door.

Nobody did.

I pounded the glass. I screamed, “Isabelle!” over and over again. I was about to throw a potted plant through your window when your neighbor came out.

“What are you doing?” she asked. She had white hair. Purple rings under her eyes.

I said I was looking for you.

She said you weren’t home. Your husband wasn’t either. Apparently, the two of you had a huge fight the night before and he chased you out the door and you got in the car and drove off somewhere while he shouted “horrible things” at you.

That was all your neighbor knew.

I was so proud of you, Isabelle.

The first thing I wanted to do was jump on the ferry and celebrate with some fresh Spanish chorizo on a French baguette. The next morning, I went there, eager to find you sitting cross-legged on the upper deck, waiting for me in that flowery dress I love so much.

But you weren’t there.

Sitting in your seat was a saran-wrapped charcuterie board with a note taped to it:

Exploring a world of possibilities.

Thanks for the nudge,

Isabelle

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Isabelle? You left New York without me? You didn’t even bother to tell me? After everything I did for you? How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t know where you are? I’m trying to help you, Isabelle. Why won’t you let me?

First, you delete Instagram. Then you change your number. Now I’m running out of options. I wrote this post on Craigslist because it was the only thing I could think of. So when you see it, message me here. I promise I won’t be mad. I just want to talk.

You’re my world of possibilities, baby,

<3 Felix