At Night I Dream of Van Gogh Skies
At Night I Dream of Van Gogh Skies
A Flash Fiction by Fiona Robertson
Shortlisted 2024 WestWord Flash Prize
Albert from eHarmony
I don’t let the name put me off because that would be silly and if he’s a nice guy obviously it would be no problem to call out ‘Yes, Albert! Like that, Albert!’ during sex, and after our second date I think to myself maybe I’d even shorten it to ‘Albie’ which is kind of cute, but in the end the name thing is a moot point since Albert, despite loving French films and Mexican food and the outdoors, just like I do, is not really into sex or at least not with me, and we spend long hours bushwalking and eating burritos and talking on the couch about which of the Three Colours films is the best, but he never makes a move beyond a lingering kiss followed by intense eye contact and a murmured, ‘Tracy, you are an incredible woman’ so that I almost believe him (a welcome change from Richard, who through most of our marriage oozed disapproval) and I’m a little perplexed by Albert’s restraint, until finally one night at my place I reach for his zip only to have him remove my hand, saying gently ‘No, Tracy, no’ and after that I buy more lube for myself and stop answering his texts.
Jeff from the party
Jeff is obviously a rebound from Albert since about the only thing we have in common is an appetite for sex and despite being a year older he is way too energetic for me, wanting to change positions every two minutes, which is all very well when you’re young but at forty-six gives me backache and besides, he has no kitchen skills whatsoever, in fact he cooks me sausages and oven fries (with no vegetables) three times while we’re together, then follows the meal with long conversations about his ex, saying she didn’t like dogs and how that was definitely a sign they should never have gotten married, and at the time I agree since I’m a huge fan of dogs (another topic on which Richard and I never saw eye-to-eye), but after I see how Jeff lets his German Shepherds lick his mouth and sleep under the sheets and eat Pringles from his hand I begin to think that his ex was not unreasonable after all, and in the end I tell him it’s the dogs in the bedroom or me, and he chooses Arthur and Martha, and to be honest I’m not especially disappointed.
Amir from book club
Gorgeous Amir writes haiku and cooks the most tender roast chicken when he invites me over, and there is no ex-wife because he’s only thirty-four and says he’s just never found the right person, until now, which is hugely flattering on so many levels, but sometimes he weeps after sex (quite loudly) and though he says it’s from happiness I find it disconcerting, and the other thing is when I ask if he wants children his eyes light up, even as he’s telling me it doesn’t matter either way, and having my two boys I know what he’d be missing if we stayed together, so the next time we meet at his apartment I tell him to find a woman who can give him kids, and even though he argues, his dark eyes sparking as he stirs paella with pomegranate, I stick to my guns and our relationship is over after six months which is the long-term record for me since divorcing Richard because of what happened with his dental nurse, Cara.
Lorenzo from the art gallery
You could say Lorenzo is just in the right place at the right time and maybe that’s true but I like to think it’s fate that brings us together in front of The Cattle Grid by Jon Molvig, and when I say, ‘There’s something a bit Van Gogh about that sky’ without looking at the man beside me, and Lorenzo replies, ‘Yeah, the swirling sun’ and I say ‘Exactly’ and we turn to each other and smile – well it’s then that I get a sort of shiver because he has a face that is so appealing and familiar though I’m sure we’ve never met, and after we chat a bit about Molvig and his dark self-portrait further down the wall, Lorenzo asks if I’d like a coffee, and we end up having flat whites by the river with ibises picking their way around us, the sunshine bright in our eyes, and when we say goodbye we swap numbers, which was over a year ago now, and these days I harbour no anger for Richard (who married Cara) because the truth is I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m definitely Lorenzo’s, and he likes sex that is a slow build and when he makes his salad sandwich for work he makes mine too (no cheese, extra mayo) and he hums to himself as he undresses for bed and at night I dream of Van Gogh skies.
Author: Fiona Robertson is a writer from Brisbane/Meanjin, Australia. Her short story collection, 'If You're Happy', (published by University of Queensland Press in 2022) won the Glendower Award at the 2020 Queensland Literary Awards and was shortlisted for the 2022 Steele Rudd Award. She is currently working on a novel.