Author's Note: I wrote the first, fifth, and sixth paragraphs first, while camping on vacation. Just an intriguing bit of text, but without any real personality on the part of the narrator. Then I thought about the narrator and decided he was a keeper of secrets, that was his thing, and wrote what you see here. And then I stopped. Why? Because Ambrosia has no personality either. I'll have to think about her for a while before I might be able to figure out her third of the story.

By the way, doesn't the setup remind you of the first chapter of "Pushing The Envelope"? I hate it when I repeat myself. The big question with this one is, "Yeah, maybe the writing's pretty, but what's the story?"

JS

Ambrosia

Copyright © 1998, 1999 Jordan Shelbourne

I heard about Ambrosia and Ichor through a man named McConnaghy, an expatriate American who was unwelcome in his native land for reasons having to do with the age of consent. McConnaghy was an unpleasant little man who yearned to be popular. By spending lavishly, he made friends an evening at a time. I had been taking advantage of his largesse for two weeks, which practically made me Pythias to his Damon.

"Come on," he said to me one night, "we're going to see a show." He had a cab already; I'd been in Amsterdam for two years and still didn't want to drive there.

"What show?"

"Ambrosia and Ichor." He pronounced Ichor's name correctly. He gave the cabbie an address in the red light district, and then he sat back, looking flushed and smug, and he told me about them.

"They're twins," he said. "They do a live sex act." He looked at me, waiting to see my shocked reaction. I gave him a lifted eyebrow.

"They're not really twins," he confessed then. "They just had a genius plastic surgeon. But suppose they were twins, huh? Suppose. Doesn't that rock you a bit?" He grinned nervously and made to nudge me with his elbow, but like so many of his other gestures, he didn't complete it.

We waited listlessly through a snake act and then the pair were introduced, once in Dutch, once in English. McConnaghy moved forward to the edge of his seat when they came on. He, Ichor, looked raw, primal, unrefined; she, Ambrosia, looked ethereal, delicate, with surprising strength. Pretty, of course, but surprisingly, not in the standard Hollywood way. Although they looked as different as yin and yang there was an unmistakeable family resemblance, too. As McConnaghy had said, a genius plastic surgeon

They performed to music, some kind of pop crap, and they did quite well. There was actually a spark between them. And that hint of incest kept the crowds coming. Pun intentional. I found myself watching the audience, however--sex between strangers is boring once you've seen enough of it. That spark between them set up some field of attraction that captured the attentions in the room. McConnaghy was rapt. I could see his forehead shining with sweat in the light from the stage. He applauded fervently when they finished.

"Did you like it?" he asked me, then asked me again without waiting for an answer.

I shrugged. "I don't like incest."

He frowned at me, like a ten-year-old who's had a friend confess to believing in Santa Claus. "They're not really brother and sister."

I was ready to leave then but McConnaghy stayed. I had the horrible premonition he would want to stay until their next show, in three hours, but after fifteen minutes of a terrible stand-up comedy act, Ambrosia appeared by our table. One of the bouncers stood a discreet distance away.

McConnaghy had been spending money again; I could tell.

We both stood, he held her chair and she sat in it. Up close, her ethereal quality was weaker without help from the stage lighting, but it was there. Her drink appeared magically. McConnaghy babbled, and she responded politely. It turned out that, when she wasn't moaning orgasmically, she had a pleasant contralto voice, softened by her Dutch accent.

Her attention was on McConnaghy, as it should have been; he had the money. I must have made some noise or an untoward movement, for suddenly, she turned to face me. "I have been rude," she said, "ignoring you. Did you like the show?"

"You were very good," I told her, "as was he. The lighting was excellent."

She smiled, genuine I thought for the first time. "But?"

"Pardon?"

"Your voice, it holds a 'but'."

"The music was the wrong choice. If you're going to use classical names, choose music that suits."

She laughed, and I could tell McConnaghy was torn between delight at hearing her laugh and irritation that I had made her laugh rather than he. "You are not cautious with your opinions."

"They're worth what you paid for them."

She grinned and smiled almost coquettishly and then said, "I paid in time."

"I spent in time," I said, "so we're both poorer for it." On the other side of the table, where she wasn't looking, McConnaghy had decided upon irritation and was making little head gestures at me, trying to get me to leave. So I left. "Good night, miss. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow," I told McConnaghy. The bouncer nodded at me as I left, no longer interested in me. "Don't mind me," I told no one in particular, "I can find my own way out."

I was mugged on the way home. He had a knife and I only had a few guilders, so I gave it to him. Call it a professional courtesy.

The robbery meant I had to scare up some work the next day so it was a week before I saw McConnaghy again. He had been mad at me but had forgiven me. It was probably a new experience for him; he had never had a friend long enough for the forgiveness to happen. We met by chance, in the same club where we had met for the first tim.e

I didn't get a chance to ask him how he was doing; he told me. "She's my mistress."

"Who is?"

He looked at me again as though I were stupid. It occurred to me then that McConnaghy might actually like me because he felt superior to me. It was a vaguely uncomfortable thought. "Ambrosia. Ambrosia is my mistress."

"I thought she was too old for you." He laughed, taking it as a joke. I clapped him once on the shoulder and said, "Good for you."

"And she's...well. She's wonderful." I nodded. He leaned in close to me. "I was worried you were, you know...making a play for her."

"No," I told him, "she's all yours." I clapped him on the shoulder again and bought him a drink for a change. I made an excuse to leave him there, and just before going, I asked him, "So what's her name?"

"Her what?"

"Her real name. Not her stage name."

Clouds passed across his face; I had given him something new to worry about.

"A man should know his mistress' real name," I said, and I left him there, promising myself that I wouldn't go to that club any more.

The next morning, Ambrosia woke me by knocking on my door. She smiled prettily at me and said, "Good morning." She was wearing a belted white dress with large red polka dots on it and a hat; she carried a ridiculous little white clutch purse.

I looked at her for a moment, scratching my unshaven chin. "What are you doing here?"

"And you do not even ask me in?"

"No, I don't. What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you about music." She gave me that pretty smile again. "For our show."

I stood there silently for about fifteen seconds thinking and exploring my unbrushed teeth with my tongue. "Aw, hell," I said. "We'll go to the coffee shop. You'll have to wait in the hall while I change; there's only one room."

She laughed. "Are you shy?"

I shut the door. I quickly shaved and dressed, splashed cold water on my face and met her in the hall.

"What's your name?" I asked her as we went down the narrow stairs to the street.

She laughed. "He asked me that last night. I thought you must have asked him."

"What did you tell him?"

"Chloe."

I held the door for her as we went onto the street. "And what's your real name?"

She laughed again. "Wyrdina."

I repeated it. "That's not much better than Ambrosia, you know."

"Only to an American. Would you rather call me Chloe?"

"I'd rather not talk to you at all."

She sat down and shrugged. "But you are here. Perhaps it is fate?"

I ate breakfast; she had tea.

---And it ended here---

Send comments to: jordan@compu-diva.com

Read Jordan Shelbourne's completed stories here.