Saturday's Storyteller: "Wow, that sounded like a really old and angry cat."
by Belinda Roddie
"Wow, that sounded like a really old and angry cat."
"It wasn't."
She eyed me from her cup of tea. "Then what was it?"
"You don't want to know."
We had been trying to eat breakfast casually and quietly. The night before had been particularly rough on both of us, what with our long shifts and our eleven PM discussion of how we could put money together for a new car. Needless to say, we puttered out very quickly and were so tired that even molding a word in my mouth seemed like effort. And I know for her it felt the same way because of how she kept a little bit of Earl Gray swirling on her tongue every time I looked at her.
However, the raspy but pained yowling from two stories down in our giant brick apartment complex was most likely going to be an actual conversation starter, surprisingly. Not like anything remotely more exciting was going on. So she wasn't going to let it slide.
"Do you know what it was?"
"Yes," I mumbled. The frosted mini-wheats seemed especially dense in my mouth right now. It was difficult to chew.
"Then why don't you tell me?"
"Because it's disturbing, that's why."
She lowered her voice. "It's not Missus Rodriguez downstairs, is it?"
I let my spoon grow dull in the sour-ish milk. Missus Rodriguez had been dead for two years. It was her husband who screamed.
***
We met while watching pig races at the county fair. We had held hands as "Justin Beboar" won third place. I had bet five bucks on him to win. She bought me a jalapeño cheese pretzel as a consolation gift.
Under the light of the Ferris wheel, which had been too expensive to ride on, we sat on the grass and waited for the fireworks. In the distance, a local punk rock band was doing an odd cover of Lady Gaga's "Born This Way."
I would have kissed her that night, but she wanted me to take a mint first. On our first official date, my gift to her was a tin of Altoids.
She nearly smacked me for that gesture.
***
Middle aged middle class life, wishing for some semblance of luxury with a mini-van when we didn't even have children.
The main philosophical question of the day being whether or not I should shave.
And the fact that when I left a plate of cookies from her to Mister Rodriguez, he answered with crying and crumbs on the floor the very next day when I was leaving for work.
There's a premise here, but I just can't think of one over my cereal.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
"Wow, that sounded like a really old and angry cat."
"It wasn't."
She eyed me from her cup of tea. "Then what was it?"
"You don't want to know."
We had been trying to eat breakfast casually and quietly. The night before had been particularly rough on both of us, what with our long shifts and our eleven PM discussion of how we could put money together for a new car. Needless to say, we puttered out very quickly and were so tired that even molding a word in my mouth seemed like effort. And I know for her it felt the same way because of how she kept a little bit of Earl Gray swirling on her tongue every time I looked at her.
However, the raspy but pained yowling from two stories down in our giant brick apartment complex was most likely going to be an actual conversation starter, surprisingly. Not like anything remotely more exciting was going on. So she wasn't going to let it slide.
"Do you know what it was?"
"Yes," I mumbled. The frosted mini-wheats seemed especially dense in my mouth right now. It was difficult to chew.
"Then why don't you tell me?"
"Because it's disturbing, that's why."
She lowered her voice. "It's not Missus Rodriguez downstairs, is it?"
I let my spoon grow dull in the sour-ish milk. Missus Rodriguez had been dead for two years. It was her husband who screamed.
***
We met while watching pig races at the county fair. We had held hands as "Justin Beboar" won third place. I had bet five bucks on him to win. She bought me a jalapeño cheese pretzel as a consolation gift.
Under the light of the Ferris wheel, which had been too expensive to ride on, we sat on the grass and waited for the fireworks. In the distance, a local punk rock band was doing an odd cover of Lady Gaga's "Born This Way."
I would have kissed her that night, but she wanted me to take a mint first. On our first official date, my gift to her was a tin of Altoids.
She nearly smacked me for that gesture.
***
Middle aged middle class life, wishing for some semblance of luxury with a mini-van when we didn't even have children.
The main philosophical question of the day being whether or not I should shave.
And the fact that when I left a plate of cookies from her to Mister Rodriguez, he answered with crying and crumbs on the floor the very next day when I was leaving for work.
There's a premise here, but I just can't think of one over my cereal.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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