Indigestible by Joe Kilgore

    Does he know? That's the question that jabs Russell in the temple like the business end of an ice pick when he sees who the email is from. It seems a cordial invitation. Lunch, it says. Perhaps it’s just business. But racked between debilitating guilt and a desperate flicker of hope, Russell agonizes. What if it isn't?

    Everything around him is white. The glare of the sun. The light bouncing off the bleached storefronts. The milky cobblestones on the street underfoot. His suit. The linen suit that virtually every businessman in Retiro de Santos wears to ward off the noonday heat. As he approaches the cafe, Russell dabs the sweat from his upper lip with his white handkerchief. Is he sweating from the heat or apprehension? The question remains. Does he know? 

    Russell tells the hostess he is there to meet someone. When he gives her the name, she nods and leads the way. The patio is curiously empty, Russell thinks, but his observation is cut short when he spots the man who invited him to lunch, his client, seated at a table beneath the shadow of a banyan tree.

    "Good of you to join me," Russell's client says.

    "A pleasure to be invited. It's quite lovely here."

    "Attracted to pretty things, are you?"

    Russell's breath catches in his throat. His wavering provides the opportunity for his client to continue. "The concierge at our hotel recommended it."    

    Still on edge, Russell blurts, "Hotel personnel are sometimes rewarded by local establishments for sending business their way."

    "Are you implying I've been duped?"

    "Not at all," Russell responds apologetically. "I'm sure no one would try to take advantage of you."

    "It's generally not a good idea."

    Unsure how to continue, Russell gives a quick, obedient nod of the head, and smiles.

    "Something to drink," the client asks.

    "Uh...I'll have what you're having."

    The client raises his hand, holding up two fingers. Glancing over his shoulder, Russell sees the waiter responding. He feels the need to make small talk, but anxiety muddles his judgement and again he says something he immediately wishes he hadn't.

    "We should go slowly, though. Cold cocktails and hot days can be a lethal combination."

    "Perhaps. But I have learned to discipline the things that give me pleasure."

    "Oh, of course. No advice intended. Just a friendly observation I've had to repeat to myself often."

    "Yes. You are quite a friendly fellow, aren't you? That's what my wife says."

    Russell takes an urgent sip of water. "And how is your lovely wife? I assumed she would be joining us."

    "She was feeling under the weather. Fatigue from travel, you understand."

    "Of course. Too much sun...or local color." 

    "That's one way of putting it," the client says, as the waiter returns and puts the drinks in front of them. "I hope you don't mind, but I've taken the liberty of ordering in advance. Their signature dish."

    "If you like it, I'm sure I will," Russell replies. 

    "That seems to be the case, doesn't it?" Russell's perspiration returns. Again, he is hesitant to respond. His client fills the void.

    "I've decided not to acquire the property you showed us. I thought it appropriate to deliver that little disappointment with the pleasantry of a mollifying meal."

    "That's very kind of you," Russell responds. "Most would have simply called and given me their decision over the phone. Though, I must admit my hopes were up when your wife expressed a desire to see the property a second time."

    "Frankly, it was the occasion of that second visit that solidified my decision."

    "Found it less attractive than on first viewing?"

    "Quite the contrary. She was effusive about the experience. But we both know her excitement was brought about by something altogether unrelated to the property. Need I be specific?"

    Russell's facade collapses, he instantly puts both hands on the table. "Please, let me explain."

    "No need. Recriminations and excuses are tiresome. I've heard them before. You don't think this is her first time, do you?"

    "Please understand. I meant no disrespect to you. The passion of the moment. Her astonishing beauty. I was helpless."

    "Yes, on occasion I've found that my wife is irresistible. But she is my wife."

    Before Russell can continue groveling, the waiter arrives and sets plates in front of them. 

    "Ah, lunch," the client says. "Tell me what you think."

    "Sir, I truly regret what happened, It was never my intention to—"

    "No. Not about that. Tell me what you think of the fish?"

Russel is beside himself. Unsure of how to react, he picks up his fork and samples a small piece of flesh. "Hmm. Makes the lips tingle."

    "That strange feeling in your mouth is the beginning of your central nervous system shutting down."

    Russell tries to speak, but only manages, "Wha..."

    "Next, you will become dizzy. But you won't fall because severe paralysis will immediately set in. You'll be unable to move."

    Russell hears but can't reply.

    "You'll soon lose all feeling in your face. It's possible you may vomit, but you'll remain fully conscious. At least until the poison reaches your diaphragm. At which time you'll die of asphyxia."

    Russell's eyes are locked in horror.

    "I mislead you. This cafe is actually owned by a man who owed me quite a sum. To repay, he suggested a special preparation of the blowfish. Now his debt is paid in full. And soon, yours will be."

    Russell is rigid. His face wrapped in a virtual death mask.

    As the client rises to leave, he says, "I realize etiquette dictates you stand as we part, but you needn't attempt it. What would be the point?"

    The movement of the sun has left the table no longer in shade. Intense light blinds Russell's spellbound eyes. He hears the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and noises from the street nearby, but is incapable of soliciting help. For Russell, now and forever, there is only white.

​© 2026 Joe Kilgore

About the author:
Joe Kilgore is an award-winning author of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories. He lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can learn more about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com