Cannolis (New Short Story)

We sat at the House of Naan and Curry off 7th in the Sunset not speaking. The night was dank, saturated with a surrealistic air as the fog rolled in off the ocean, it’s tendrils seeping into every crevice and creating a halo around the neon lights. It made them all look like cheap Mexican religious artwork, lo and behold thy corona around the “kingfisher” beer sign!
“I like this place” she said, spooning up her mulligatawny soup. Sarah, with her peroxide hair and red lips.
“Me too, I’ve been coming here for years”
We continued to eat in silence, the N Judah rattled by. We talked some more about politics, our friends’ gold digger girlfriend, and ended up arguing about G.G. Allins country music. I said it was different and can’t be compared to folk punk. She said it can, it sucks and country singers have always been singing about whores and whiskey. “He stuck bananas in his ass and shit them out on a spoken word, that’s fucking groundbreaking and I don’t care what you say”. She muttered something indecipherable, no doubt to get the last word in. The waiter brought the check, thanking us and giving us each a free refill on our masala tea with a wink. They’re nice here. Not the surly type you find all over the area who snots in your chowder and has a grating voice that can only belong to 24 hour diner waitresses, carnies, and prostitutes.
We’re now standing out in the fog, waiting for the train home and she turns to me. “Tom, I want cannolis.” “Cannolis?” I say, “Sarah we’re in the Asian part of town and it’s almost 10 at night. Where the hell are we going to get you some cannolis?” “Hm, I guess you’re right” she replies glumly, “but I really do want some.” “Well that’s too bad. I just bought you dinner and so let’s just catch the Muni and get home. We have ice cream there” “Dogass” she mutters kicking an empty cup. The Muni pulls up and we both hop on. It’s a slow ride home, crowded, and in typical public transport fashion, it smells like urine and artificial lighting. I count the people on the train and when they get off I count the empty seats they leave.
Finally we get off at our stop by the Haight and walk the 2 blocks to our apartment past the spanging homeless and, even more wretched, the rich kids who are homeless for the “experience”. UC Santa Cruz students on their year abroad, the locals call em. We walk up to our flat and let ourselves in. It’s not much to look at. It’s ripe with chintz and sleazy Americana. A TV without cable, an ugly orange loveseat that will be stylish once the 70s come back in vogue, a mish mash of animal skulls, and Halloween decorations that have become year round. It’s like stepping into an Edward Gorey book. Sarah goes to the kitchen and asks if I’d like the norm, a whiskey sour made with some rotgut booze. She brings out the drinks on a tray, hers a bloody Mary, which is more Tabasco than anything else.
“Tom. I really want some cannolis,” she says.
“Sarah, there’s Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer from last night. Eat that. We have tons of food and it always goes bad”
“I don’t want Ben and Jerry’s, if I did I’d say I want Ben and Jerry’s.”
“Sarah we’re broke. I already spent more than I should’ve on dinner, I love you, but I’m not going on a quest for cannolis. If you want em, you can go buy em”
“To-o-o-m” she whined, “You don’t understand. I want cannolis. I need them. I’m DYING without them,” she gasped, grapping her throat and falling to the ground.
“NO! Don’t die on the rug, I just vacuumed!” I said, kicking her softly. Laughing, she grabbed my ankle and pulled me down with her. She kissed me on the nose and said, “I’ll get those cannolis, you wait and see. But right now I could settle for some you.”
Later that night I woke up, trying to figure out where I was. The living room floor. Ah, yes. I looked around for Sarah but she was gone. I figured she must’ve gone to bed. But when I got to the bedroom no one was there except for our two rats, Rattus and Rattus. Original. I know. The bed looked unslept in. I think it was the site of those sterile crisp sheets that set me off. The situation I was in was not sterile or crisp. Quite the opposite. Messy and fetid. My fiancé is missing. I woke up naked on the living room floor in the middle of the night and my fiancé is missing.
“Okay Tommy boy, tomarooni, just breath” I told myself. I found my phone and dialed her number, my fingers shaking at such a frantic pitch, and yes! her voice! “Hi! This is Sarah leave a message, or not”. “FUCK!” I yelled slamming the phone down. Had she left me for someone else? Is it because I didn’t get her cannolis? Was she abducted and now falling prey to chromatic anal probes? Was our sex abysmal? Did the government come whisk her away? I knew she shouldn’t have liberated that mink fur farm. These thoughts whirled through my head while I pulled on my boots and decided to wander the streets, most likely in vain, and search for her. I heard sirens in the distance and then
The door slammed open and there it was. A banshee. Crazed hell-bent eyes and hair crazed with manic electricity, it stood there. “HELP ME TOM!” it shrieked, breaking glass with her fevered pitch. “Sarah what’s the matter?” I cried running towards her. “HELP!” she yelled again. “She’s cracked”, I thought. My fiancé is batshit insane. She began thrusting bags at me. White bakery bags reeking with a saccharine odor. Once they were all off the landing she slammed and dead bolted the door. Her peroxide hair was covered in sludge and her black pants were now a ghastly splatter paint of white and black.
“What the FUCK” I bellowed, “What the fuck were you thinking? What the hell is all this shit?”
She stood there, eyes growing wide as the sirens drew closer, “Cannollis. Quick. Hide them.”