“Generations: Charades/Coitus” by Tyler Dempsey



Quotes litter the walls. One reading: Cumming is just as important as leaving.


“You’re an artist?” Tim asks Mia.


“My son,” reaches for her tote. He ogles.




“They’re amazing!”


“He’s eighteen.”


Before leaving, she buys her first painting.



At the weekly meeting, Saintly calls Tim’s painting, Modern Centurealism, whatever the hell that is. Paul shows, “The Wave.” Product of weeks in Paria Canyon. Sunburned rock. Emerald gold. Saintly reads a three-lined poem, “Untitled.” Jeff delivers his goods.


She stops him at the door. Canvases dangle. “Glad you came.”


His 18-year-old heart twirls.



Back home, drunk. Crazy about me! (When we marry, she’ll keep her last name as a hyphen.) He snores in the Tommy Bahama chair.



Steaming breakfast. He studies the painting. Mia hums, “Sympathy for the Devil.”  






Eyes narrow, “What’s going on?” He looks at his not-from-box breakfast, to the wall, back.


“I felt like something different. Okay?”


“Okay.” Again he glances at the painting.


“I’m collecting. First of many.”


“Shit smeared across canvas.”


“Not surface-level, like your stuff. Doesn’t mean I don’t like it. Or it isn’t good.” She licks her lips.


He storms off.


She settles. Quiet table. Quiet house. Tim would eat this dress.



“This meeting’s wild,” claims Tim. “Artists from everywhere. Catering, booze.”


Jeff irons several garments. Any attention from his nose.



Her dress a shrink-wrapped costume, Mia grabs two hunks of chocolate, a fistfull of pistachios—a crumble, or three, of blue cheese—holding wine away she wades into the crowd.


Tim quiets the audience. Provides an introduction. Explaining artists begin with a speech or without a word. Jeff commits to talking. “My first real work,” the mic feedbacks. “An Artist’s Voice.”


Tim quips, “Ideas without direction.” Comparing it to last week’s piece.



They collide near the bathroom.


“I’m sorry for being critical. Criticism’s gold, though.” He draws closer, “I wasn’t, hard on him?”


“That’s art.”


You’re art.” He tucks strands behind an ear. They kiss. Fingers travel. He covers her mouth. Mia loosens his belt.


“My room?”  





Here you are.” The balcony. “Your piece is amazing, you painted it.”


He offers the bottle. “I guess.”


“You don’t get it.”


The cigarette-alcohol taste resembles metal. “Thanks. You want to—talk?”


“I guess.”



Tim heaves. Bedsheets strangle. “Can’t believe we did that,” she has a Bonnie-and-Clyde look.


“If you deserve it. Good things keep singing.”


Cheek on his bicep, “You’re good. You’re art’s good.” He cringes. Her finger draws sweat-circles around his bellybutton.


“Tonight’s collectors own many of my works,” he lights a cigarette, a mushroom-cloud explores the ceiling.


“I’d love a Tim Young gallery. You’ll be amazing one day.”


He doesn’t understand. “I will.”



She’s doing yoga. “Want to sit by me?” he pats the blanket.


“That’s alright.”


“Saintly. I like you.” He said it.


“Aww. I like you too.” Jeff springs for a kiss. (He’s been drinking.)


Shirt’s off. He fights his anvil of clothing. Makes for her belt, stopping to see what he’s doing. She’s annoyed. He’s horrified to think why. A mental-play unfolds: back in the crowded room. Naked, “The first flaccid thing ever done.” In a bigger spotlightTim, “Decent idea. No execution!”


The silence warps glass. She flutters her eyes. “I’m Saintly. Who are you?”




“What’s this?” Head snaps sideways.  




“Why are you here?”


“Heard there were artists. Brought paintings. Smoke and ideas. I give up.”


“I can’t stand it.” Her fingers walk his forearm. “Even the name’s dumb. Art.”


“What do you do?”


“Wait tables.”


“You can’t . . .”


And raise kids.”


“Single mom?”


“You know it.”




They laugh.




“For what?”




“You’re welcome. Not sure what I did.”  


“I feel like I know you.”


“They teach guys that?”


“I’ll get along, little by little.”


If you get a table.”


“Lots of guys?”


“Not tons. Any I want . . .”


“Any you like?”


“Oh, yeah.”






“What about this?”  


“We just met.”


Tyler Dempsey won The Tulsa Voice/ Nimrod International Journal 2nd Annual Flash Fiction Contest and has been a finalist in Glimmer Train and New Millennium Writings competitions. This is one of many pieces in, “Time as a Sort of Enemy,” Tyler’s flash collection he’s shopping around. His work appears or is forthcoming in (amongst others) Soft Cartel Magazine, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, and Gone Lawn. Find him on Twitter @tylercdempsey or: http://tylerdempseywriting.com

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