Vicky Villanuova is a piece of flash fiction told entirely through dialogue. It was inspired by an awkward conversation I had with a friend in college, sitting at our favorite café on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. The story is so short, to say any more would give it all away.
It can be read below or by going to the publication HERE.
J. Edward Kruft
But my God, isn’t she gorgeous?
I mean really, she’s just the most splendid vision on earth, right?
Did you say “splendid?”
She’s half Italian and half Irish. I don’t know which side gives her the red hair. I suppose it’s the Irish. And let me assure you – as they say, the carpet DOES match the drapes.
“Nice?” For Christ’s sake, how can you say “nice?” She’s a veritable Goddess, and that’s the truth. The God Almighty Truth.
You’re putting a lot of God into this.
That’s because it’s appropriate, nay, necessary. Come on, before she gets back, tell me the truth. Really now. No more joshing. Isn’t she just the most gorgeous thing ever?
I’ll tell you one thing, she seems pretty right-winged.
Can I get you gentlemen anything else at the moment?
Yes, I’ll take another cappuccino, and one for the lady as well. Fred?
No, I’m good, thanks.
Right-winged, left-winged, who cares? There’s no fault in a beauty that fine. Who said that?
I believe you did.
No, no. It’s a quote. From somebody famous. Who was it?
I really don’t think….
I want to say Bogart. Bogart said it in some movie. Maybe it was about Lauren Bacall.
It seems a clumsy line for Bogie.
Then maybe it was Henry Fonda. Did you ever see My Darling Clementine? Hey! Clementine, that would be a good nickname for her. You know. Because of the red hair.
That would be a horrible nickname, especially because of the red hair. Although you’re right in one respect. It is more orange than red.
Orange, red, vermilion, who cares? When you’re that gorgeous the finer details really don’t matter. Am I right?
Ah, you’re just jealous, that’s all. I can read you like a book. Christ Almighty, I can remember back when we were kids. You used to run with that swarthy Cosmopolis fellow. What was his name?
Yeah, Alex Cosmopolis. Boy, he was a looker. He could get any girl that struck his fancy.
Why are you talking like you’re in an episode of Father Knows Best?
Hush up now. Like I was saying, that Cosmopolis kid – Greek, I suppose – he was the real deal. And you loved that and hated that about him. I could see it. From afar. You thought being associated with him made you, somehow, better than you really were: popularity by proximity. But it also – what’s that expression? – it stuck in your claw – that he could get any pretty young thing he wanted and you, well, you were made for sloppy seconds, at best. Oh, boy! I remember. I remember it well!
Thank you. What? Craw? What the hell’s a craw?
Formally, I believe it’s the stomach of a bird. Most people don’t know that.
I still don’t know it. You’re making it up. Oh gosh, here she comes. Oh wait. Nope, not her.
You’re too much.
I’m telling you, jealous, jealous, jealous.
First of all…
First of all, I’m gay. As you know. So I would not be jealous of you and whatever paramour you took a gander toward. And while I’m on it, I was also not jealous of Alex Cosmopolis. I simply lusted after Alex. And you want to know a secret? Alex Cosmopolis, the Adonis you refer to as the real deal, equally lusted after me. Yeah. He liked to have my cock in his mouth. He liked it so much, he used to climb that old oak tree under my window almost every night just so he could get a taste of yours truly. Couldn’t get enough of it, sloppy seconds notwithstanding. So in fact, you ego-maniacal twat, all of this is to say you clearly know squat about yours truly and the veritable body count that is my much storied love life. As for what I know of you, I’ve always known you to be something of an asshole, but now – and I’ve got to say this – now I am becoming highly suspicious that you are, in fact, legally blind.
Furthermore, Stan, may I remind you, dear-good-old-dear-friend-o-mine….
That you are married? Married, in fact, to my sister?
Well. I must concede, there is that peccadillo. Oh God, look at her. Here she comes. Now tell me true, is she not the most gorgeous thing ever?
(BIO as it appeared in the original publication)
J. Edward Kruft received his MFA in fiction writing from Brooklyn College. His stories have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Bartleby Snopes, Bop Dead City, Crack the Spine, Down in the Dirt, Eunoia Review, and Soundings Review. He has a soft-spot for vintage game shows, and among his favorites are the $25,000 Pyramid and Password. He also likes Card Sharks, but only the Jim Perry years. He lives in Astoria, NY and Asbury Park, NJ with his husband, Mike, and their Keeshond-mix rescue, Aine.