Dead Lobster Tales

written for daily Flash Fiction prompt about someone who has to miss a dinner date

Dead Lobster Tales

He couldn’t believe this was happening today.  Today of all days, when he’d finally managed to get Jenny from the apartment downstairs to agree to go out with him.  It took him six months to get the nerve to talk to her!  Even as he was thinking about the unfairness of it all, his stomach contracted into a hard, vicious knot and tears sprang into his eyes.  He retched into the toilet again, for the twelfth time in the last two hours, gagging and managing to hurl up more of the foul liquid that reminded him of bleach and cheap tonic water; bitter and caustic, burning his throat and causing him to cough uncontrollably.

After his stomach finally stopped its internal acrobatics, he stood up from the cool bathroom floor and looked in the mirror.  Holy mother of Pete!  He barely looked human!  Black circles under his eyes, deathly pale skin, hair lank and damp.  “Oh, as God is my witness, I will never eat mussels again!” he thought, wondering what on Earth possessed him to order mussels from Red Lobster.  Hadn’t he always called it ‘Dead Lobster’ because of the poor quality of seafood, and unimaginative menu?  Even if forced to eat there today with his client, why hadn’t he played it safe and just ordered a Caesar salad?  With even the mere thought of food, his stomach started the now familiar routine all over again…

He awoke with a piercing headache, rubbed his watering, hollowed eyes and looked around the room, wondering what had happened to the light.  Glancing over at the clock on the nightstand he saw the red numbers displayed -  6 : 0 8 …  but he had lost all track of time during his near death experience.  Was it AM or PM?  Was it still Tuesday, or had he slept through to Wednesday.  He just didn’t know.  But what was he thinking about before he fell asleep?  What was he supposed to be doing tonight?  He knew there was something…

Just then the phone rang.  He leaned over to grab it from the nightstand, trying to stop the shrill ringing noise which felt like hammers pounding his brain.  “Hello,” he croaked.

“Hello,” a voice croaked back.  “This is Jenny.  I’m so sorry but I’m sick.  I can’t make our date tonight.  I don’t know, must have been something I ate…”