The Monday Jar - Flash Fiction Story by Lorette C. Luzajic

 

The Monday Jar

Flash Fiction Story

by Lorette C. Luzajic

 

The jar was plain enough, standing out from the others for its lack of adornment. The rest were elaborate patterned enamel swirls and flowers, old Turkish treasures with sensual, curved necklines and flared spouts. Another had glass as light as a bird’s skeleton, exquisitely etched by a master hand. The shopkeeper had an eye, to be sure, but the one that caught her attention was sturdy and serviceable, off-white, ceramic, with a mouth wide enough for her hand.

 

Penny loved rifling through junk shops for curious objects and beautiful ornaments. When she pulled into the plaza, it was the medical mart she was after. Ted needed special socks for his swollen ankles, and new rubber tips for his cane. A neighbour had suggested this place for its impressive selection. Penny couldn’t help noticing the collectibles corner at the end of the strip, a welcome distraction after rows of hemorrhoid donuts and bandages.  Today she passed over the allure of yesterday’s crackling leather-bound hymn collections, and jaunty fascinator millinery. She reached for the simplest vase.

 

Ten bucks. Perfect.

 

“You sure about this one?” asked the fellow at the front. There was something peculiar about his affect, and his angles, everything sharp and jittery. 

 

“I am,” Penny said. She waited for his upsell speech. The enamel vases were no doubt more than $100. He took her money, but he hesitated then. “This jar comes with an apparent curse,” he said. “I could show you a nice milk jug. Is it for flowers?”

 

Penny shrugged off her annoyance. Antique people were all a little odd and many had strange beliefs. They lived in the past, after all, a world of folklore and things half-known, and it was part of the enchantment you were seeking when you bought old things. Today’s assembly line stuff did not have the same spirits and stories.

 

“What kind of curse?” she asked. She couldn’t help herself. If she was buying a genie with her bottle, all the better, she thought. But this particular jug was not so exotic and not very old. It was probably made in a small factory a state or two away, and just a few decades ago. 

 

“I do not know the nature of the curse,” the thin man said. “But this jar is always returned to us. We are of course happy to refund our unsatisfactory products …” He tapped with sharp fingers a notice for ten day returns. “However, the small expense doesn’t seem to be the problem here.”

 

“Well, what is the problem?” Penny asked.

 

“We aren’t sure,” the man said gravely. “The last several owners have all said this jar ruined their life.”

 

“I’ll take that chance,” she said lightly, stuffing the jug into bag with Ted’s new socks. 

 

Driving home, she felt a bit of excitement. She had already talked to Ted about the Monday Jar. It was something from a talk show she had seen, a concept for couples designed to “invite intimacy back into your marriage.” The idea was fairly straightforward. You put your fantasies and fun ideas on little pieces of paper. Every Monday, you randomly pulled one from the jar. And that week, you found ways and time to bring the fantasy to life, together.

 

Ted thought the Monday Jar sounded a bit like dirty dice, those corny smut novelties you rolled that might land on “kiss” and “toes.” But he was still game. Like Penny, he wondered where the years had gone and how they had both grown soft and veiny around the edges. Ted managed diabetes and Penny shared the woes of his neuropathy, hers a gift from the chemotherapy she survived. Pleasure wasn’t often on their minds, so he thought that a saucy game that could get them naked more often wasn’t a bad idea.

 

Being more playful together appealed to Penny, too. They had weathered the temptations and monotonies of married love rather nicely, when so many couples, if they stayed together at all, never made love, and acted so bitterly towards each other. She and Ted could be sad or frustrated like anyone else, but they worked to cherish each other rather than grow into enemies.  Sex was of course different and less frequent than when they were newlyweds, and modified by their various aches and woes, but they still found ways to connect and love.

 

The first few weeks were promising. The tab that Ted pulled from the jar put a twinkle in his eye. They were more touchy feely than usual after that. The Monday after Penny pulled a paper out, they both braved the sex toy supermarket, laughing together while feeling all kinds of buzzing plastic and gooey unguents. They took delight over being the oldest couple in those glossy aisles. 

 

It was tough to pinpoint when things started to disintegrate in the rush of lust and laughter, or when their chummy closeness started to change. But along the way, they started to grow ill at ease. Penny felt weirdly vulnerable that a few of her filthiest fantasies were floating in the Monday Jar, ready to surface in the light of day by chance selection. She felt sick one week to discover a trick she’d been using for years on Ted was all wrong. This time, she burst into tears when she read the random Monday paper. Ted got angry because Penny had insisted they be honest and uncensored when they started this part of their erotic journey. He didn’t like feeling judged when he’d been so willing to entertain her unexpected needs.

 

“Trouble in paradise?” the man at the collectibles corner asked. He did not seem surprised to see her. He pointed at the ten day returns sign. “I don’t want a refund,” Penny assured him. “We just don’t want the jar. Please take it.” The man nodded as he unwrapped it. 

 

“You think you know someone,” Penny said, mostly to herself, as she was leaving.

Lorette C. Luzajic reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. She has a Bachelor in journalism, but has always focused on creative writing and the study of art history. Her work has been published in hundreds of journals, taught in schools and workshops, and translated into Urdu and Spanish. For many years, she wrote a column for Good Food Revolution, pairing Wine and Art. Today she writes about culinary lore in the monthly Eat Play Rove, often centering food in visual art in her stories. She was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023 and 2024. She has been nominated several times each for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best American Food Writing. She has been shortlisted for Bath Flash Fiction and The Lascaux Review awards. Her collections include The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art, running for almost nine years, and the brand-new prose poetry journal, The Mackinaw. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.