Pretty Pink Umbrella - (ABCD)

Well, this was awhile ago, but I just felt like telling a story today. It was a Tuesday, around noon, the girls and I got called together to go out for lunch; well, let’s just say it was an interesting day. We all met at Chez Pierre, y’know, that adorable place in town. It was a beautiful day, the perfect day to balance out the chaos that was to be unleashed.

I arrived at the bistro a few minutes early and I got us a table out side, under a cute, little, pretty pink umbrella. Delilah called to say that she’d be there as soon as she could; she had misplaced her house keys and had just finished tearing up her whole house. Carina was walking up with Angie, apparently something was going on with Angie, she’d been acting strange for the past few weeks - according to Carina, at least.

Finally all of us were settled at our table, under our pretty pink umbrella. Angie seemed somewhat uncomfortable - almost sickish - then quickly blurted out “I’m pregnant, girls!” That was the moment when everything sped up. Oh, my….! It was Chaos Central. After we stopped bombarding Angie with questions and Oooohs and Aaaahhs, she told us the story. 

She met an American man in her shop a few weeks ago, he was a traveling man, venturing around - Paris was his last stop…

Well, she kept talking and I was listening - I was, it was gossip, what girl does not like to gossip!? - but after a few minutes, my attention shot over to a fat, clumsy American couple just walking out of the café to sit outside in the sun. I went back to listening to the story my friend was telling; she was explaining that he had to leave, back to America and had promised to call, but, (at the time) about 2 weeks later, and still no word from him. Poor girl. 

I feel awful saying this, saying how I was there to spend the afternoon with my girls and I ended up zoning out the whole time… At the same time, it came in use. The gorgeous, overly-flamboyant, waiter, Vincent, had just made his rounds and served the American couple their foreign meals, came around to us with more wine - much needed wine, I should say - (all but Angie,) and then back into the bistro. 

I was paying more attention to these tourists, they were loud, fat, and oblivious to all of the above. They were whining and complaining that there was no ice in their diet Cokes, how typical. 

A few minutes later, the wife was, again, commenting on the lack of ice in her drink when the husband began choking…well, it took me a second or so to realize what was happening, I was just not thinking straight. Right when I realized that this man was actually having some severe issues, I was about to get up and help when Angie rushed past me and began helping him - I believe it was her version of the Heimlich Maneuver - but whatever it was, it saved this man’s life. 

His wife was in tears at the fact that her husband had almost choked to death, and that our friend, Angie, had just rescued him. She offered to pay for our lunches and buy us a round of drinks, but Angie said thanks, but no thanks, and she - 

Wait! …Oh, my God! I have to go! Angie is having her baby, she is on her way to the hospital right now! I will finish the story when the time comes…

Chelsey Shannon—ABCD prompt

Harriet

It’s terrible being a tomato—that is, it’s terrible being a sliced up, picked tomato when one once was a live tomato on the vine, and it was infinitely worse to be a picked tomato in a salad, moments away from being consumed, yet still conscious.
Harriet had heard many stories, from the vine to the basket to the cargo hold, about what it was like to be eaten, about how you were lucky if you were eaten by a pretty human, because it didn’t hurt as much; how you were more unfortunate if the human was unattractive; how you were downright unlucky if you were eaten by an animal.

Lying against a silent, resigned bed of lettuce from an iceberg head named Jill, Harriet knew she was lucky. The face hovering above her was quite lovely. But, Harriet couldn’t help but notice, despite the awful sensation in her body of having been sliced by a serrated knife and arranged artistically on top of Jill’s lettuce, the face was also distressed.

“Angelique,” said a kind voice, also at the table, though Harriet couldn’t see the speaker. “If you want to make sure he’s okay, just call him. He gave you his number. That’s what it’s for.”

Ah, thought Harriet.

“Look, Beatrice,” said another voice, a bit sterner. “She shouldn’t have to call him. If the ass cared, he would have called by now. Sorry, hon,” the voice continued, softer now. “But I think you just should let this one go.”

The face above Harriet looked pained. “But he said he loved me…”

A third, patient-sounding voice chimed in. “Okay, how about a compromise? Why doesn’t Angelique just email him?”

“Claire,” said the first voice, “it’s been two weeks since he went back to America. I think it’s appropriate to call. Angelique’s worried. What if he didn’t get home alright?”

“What does it matter?” asked the stern voice. “It was just a fling.”

“Jesus, Dominique,” said Beatrice. “Obviously it means a little more to Angelique than just that. Look at how upset she is.”

Harriet gazed up at the woman—Angelique. Her eyes had filled with tears.

“American tourists are all the same,” said Claire, not unkindly. “Come to France all ready for some fun, forget you when they return to their real lives. I’m sorry, Angelique. That’s just what usually happens.”

That’s when Harriet heard the secret, a murmur so quietly slipped between Angelique’s lips that only Harriet could heard it. “I’m pregnant…”

At that moment, the bistro door flew open. Harriet couldn’t see who had entered, but the woman at the table tittered. In the distance, Harriet heard a voice in heavily accented, incorrect French state, “Jay suise desoley.”

The woman called Dominique cackled and ridiculed the man’s poor French, imitating his lisp and making a snide comment about Americans. None of the other woman laughed, though for all Harriet knew, they might have smiled.

The tourist must have ordered and sat down, for the conversation turned back to Angelique and her lost American. Harriet was beginning to grow bored with it—no conclusion seemed to be being reached—when suddenly there was an odd choking sound from a neighboring table. Angelique bolted from her seat suddenly.

“Oh my god, Angelique!” Harriet heard Claire intone in awe as, suddenly, she felt herself being picked up, raised from the safe bed of lettuce. No!

She was hovering outside the mouth of a striking brunette.

“Thank god she got up,” said the brunette, in the voice Harriet identified as Dominique’s. “I’ve been eyeing this tomato the whole time.”

And as Harriet sailed toward Dominique’s pearly whites and the bistro erupted into applause as, presumably, Angelique had saved someone’s life, as was declared by the lisping American in poor French, Harriet’s last thought was, “I wonder what Angelique will name the baby?”

Fin