AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote the first, fifth, and sixth
paragraphs first, 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?"


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---

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