Pardon My French

I can’t spend all my days just sitting around on my ass, watching “Buffy The Vampire Slayer.” I’m surrounded by people who are constantly writing their hearts out. I’m sometimes a little reluctant to get going, as getting those creative juices to flow can take some brain calisthenics, but I never regret getting to work.

Lately, Phil’s been inspiring me to make words by being really diligent with his blogging efforts. He’s been making themes for each day of the week. For instance, Tuesdays are reserved for interpretations of the “High Fidelity”-reminiscent “top 5” list format and Friday posts are centered on the theme “In My Brainholes,” in which he talks about the thoughts and weird, artistic dreams he’s had throughout the week.

At the conclusion of last week’s Friday blog, Phil Hornshaw challenged his readers to take a stab at a short-story prompt of his own devising. The only rules were that the story had to be rooted in the horror genre and that the first line had to begin with: “Snapping awake, she’s oppressed by the intense darkness of the room. Slowly, a shadow unfolds itself in the corner.”

Writing fiction has never been one of my strengths, but I so badly want it to be. Practice, practice, practice.

I wrote a very early first draft in response to this prompt. It still needs a bunch of work—the characters need more fleshing out and the story needs more development— but because it’s been so long since I’ve written any kind of short story, I’m too happy not to share it.

So this is what I came up with. Again this is a first draft, but feel free to leave your criticisms in the comments.

—
The Girl in the Mirror

Snapping awake, she’s oppressed by the intense darkness of the room. Slowly, a shadow unfolds itself in the corner.

“Who’s there?”

The echoes of her own voice startle Lillith. Her courage is unexpected, likely residual feelings from a dream she’s already forgotten.

She pulls her down blanket to her chin for comfort. All is silent for a moment–but, suddenly there’s a high-pitched hiss, followed by a faint clicking on the wooden floorboards.

Fear leaves her and she is overcome with rage. Unleashing a dramatic groan, Lillith snaps on her bedside reading lamp.

“Fucking cockroaches,” she mutters aloud. As her eyes adjust to the blinding light, she searches the ground for one of her slippers.

Weapon in hand, she looks to the corner of the room. No pests in sight, she scans the remainder of her nearly immaculately clean room before hopping back up onto her bed. A quick glance under the bed verifies that the bug or bugs aren’t there, either.

They must have gone through a crack in the wall?

She gives the room one last once over, grabs up the latest issue of VOGUE from her bedside table and sews herself back in between the blankets of her bed. There’s no going back to sleep now.

#

At 130 pounds, Lillith’s body still needed a substantial amount of work.

Standing before the department store’s ceiling-to-floor-length mirror, wearing a red and white striped bikini, Lillith could pick out every single flaw on her body.

Not counting her tiny breasts and witch-like nose, the parts that the yogalates and running couldn’t fix, she still had a lot cellulite on her thighs and a bit of jiggly tummy fat that refused to go away.

Twirling and posing in the mirror, she scrunched up her nose in disgust as every angle only seemed to make her look less attractive.

Lillith was reluctant to admit that she was in the best shape of her life. It took persistent urging on her friends’ behalf to get her to see that all of her dieting, exercise and concentrated positive thinking was paying off.

But what did her hard work matter when sleek dresses, short shorts and sexy bathing suits were still so far out of the question?

Frustrated, she pulled her loose fitting clothes back over her boney limbs and left the suit on the floor for the sales associate to pick up.

#

It took approximately 8 minutes longer than usual for Lillith to find a parking spot on Hollywood Boulevard. It was shortly after 11 a.m. on Tuesday and she was late for her weekly appointment.

Slamming her car door, she nearly spilled her non-fat iced latte all over the front of herself. Clumsily digging through her change purse, she found three quarters and then dropped them through the coin slot of the neighboring parking meter. Her heels rapidly clacking on the pavement, Lillith rounded a corner and ventured into an alleyway tagged with decades of layers of graffiti. Even in the daytime, the almost hidden passageway still felt dark and mysterious.

There was just one door in sight, a crimson red metal passageway. Stenciled on the door in black spray paint read DORTHEA GOLDSTEIN: SPIRITUAL MEDIUM, LOVE SPECIALIST AND GODDESS PRIESTESS.

There was no knob, just a small, white, electronic pushbutton attached to the brick wall on the right side of the door. Lillith firmly pressed the circular shaped button and a few seconds later, an alarming buzzer sound seemed to prop the door open.

The office, if you could call it that, wasn’t what Lillith expected on her first visit. There were no hanging beads, talismans, crystal balls or tarot cards to be seen anywhere. With its cocoa walls, cushy couches and fireplace, the place felt more like a sophisticated and comfortable living room.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Dottie. Parking was a nightmare.”

The woman named Dottie looked up from her worn, olive-colored leather bound book, removed the glasses from her face and smiled. Lillith tried not to look her directly in the face. Her corneas were faintly coated with white fluffy clouds, a chilling visual that still made feel uncomfortable.

“Nonsense. It’s not even 10 after.”

Her fading, curly red hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, as it typically was. She was wearing the same teal sweater that she often did and matching eye shadow.

Dottie was older—the wrinkles and mild case of cataracts gave that away—but Lillith couldn’t quite guess her age. Dotti gave Lillith the impression that she had once been a very pretty girl—one with a tiny waist, thick and shiny hair, a bright smile and sparkling sapphire eyes.

The only thing about Dottie that even remotely resembled a stereotypical psychic was the jewelry that she wore. The woman wore a lot of gold bracelets, rings and necklaces, all encrusted in colorful jewels.

“I know you don’t like to wait,” Lillith said, clamping her hands together, nervously.

Dottie smiled again. “I was just doing a little leisure reading–the works of a long-forgotten playwright.”

“Were you once an actress, Dottie?”

Dottie pursed her lips before giving her hard-lined reply: “You may be the only woman in this town who hasn’t at least tried.

“Please, sit down and let’s get started. Did you bring the things I asked?”

Lillith nodded and pulled from her purse a bundle of her own strawberry blonde hair, a locket that once belonged to her grandmother and a picture of a very beautiful, bikini-clad woman from a magazine ad. Dottie opened the drawstring on a large black felt satchel and indicated for Lillith to place them inside.

Setting the small sack aside, Dottie pulled a very old, small, gold-framed mirror from a drawer and set it on a stand on the table between them.

“Now,” said Dottie. “I want you to look in this mirror and concentrate.”

#

It didn’t seem to matter how much makeup she applied to her skin. The dark circles under her eyes would not go away. In fact, they only seemed to be getting worse.

“I’ve done everything I can think of,” said Lillith to her friend Sandy during their afternoon lunch date.

“I’ve laid out different powders, gels and traps—and when that didn’t work, I actually came up with the money to hire an exterminator.”

“Really? And the exterminator didn’t work?” Sandy asked between bites of salad.

“Well, he said he couldn’t spray because there was no proof of an infestation.”

Lillith studied her friend’s face, wondering if Sandy thought she was crazy. She was beginning to think that maybe she was. Sandy broke the awkward silence.

“Maybe you should come spend a night at my place,” Sandy said, “because you look like shit.”

#

The first time Lillith saw her new face in the mirror, she thought she was dreaming, again. Only this time, she must have been having a nightmare.

Her body was fatigued, even though she had just woken from a long night’s rest. It was the first time that the cockroaches hadn’t bothered her in weeks.

It was very difficult to see and so she had to haul her heavy, aching body directly up to the mirror and even then, she had to strain her eyes just to look at herself.

A familiar thunderstorm appeared in her eyes. Windy gray swirls of storm clouds, banishing her from her dreams of a life of unalloyed perfection.

Touching her hands to the unfamiliar flesh, Lillith’s long fingernails could snugly fit inside of the crevices of the wrinkles—the lines and gaps that eroded away the skin over the course of a lifetime—someone else’s lifetime.

Her hair was stripped of color and her skin–all over her hands, face, forearms and shoulders–were covered with flat black-brown spots.

She removed her nightgown, no longer a wispy, elegant sleep dress, but an uncomfortably tight shirt. Her underwear were so tight, they restricted blood flow had to be ripped away using all of her strength.

Staring at herself, now nearly naked, her cloudy cornea’s filled with tears.

Just as she feared, her body, too, like her face, was no longer hers. Her breasts, now swollen cantaloupes, sagged down past her ribs nearly to her naval. Well, at least where Lillith estimated a belly button should be. Her once only slightly imperfect stomach was encased by the flab of three enormous spare tires.

Green, blue and red varicose veins covered her legs, more closely resembling a road map of all the interstate highways in the state of California than her own limbs.

#

Even her biggest hooded sweatshirt wouldn’t fit her new body and so it took Lillith two days, with some wardrobe and transportation aid from her incredulous, pity-eyed friends, before she could make it out of the house.

The first place she headed was Hollywood Boulevard to see Dottie.

Sandy dropped her off at the curb and Lillith lost all peripheral vision. Holding a rather unattractive pair of drugstore glasses above the bridge of her nose, she walked as quickly as she could. Lillith found that her new body’s best equated the slowest speeds performed by her old one. When she rounded the familiar corner, she found a solid brick wall where the dark graffitied alley used to be. She ran her hands over the molding between stones before collapsing to the ground in a fit of tears.

#

It was nearly a year after Lillith stopped trying to track down the woman named Dorthea Goldstein that she first saw her on the cover of a magazine.

The vibrant actress Dottie Lee was pictured laughing, wearing a flattering red and white bathing suit. She couldn’t have been older than 25: she was skinnier than a rail, had flaming red hair, sparkling blue eyes, ceramic skin, flawless make-up. In the photo, she sat kneeling with her hands on her hips, a position that reminded Lillith of a 1950s pin-up girl.

The cover’s corresponding main story, “Inside: How to get a banging body like Dottie Lee.”

In that moment, Lillith was too shocked to be angry. It was incredible how much better Lillith’s body looked on Dottie than it ever did on her.

#

That creative writing course I took senior year of college taught me to never question the virtue of a writing prompt.

A writing prompt: a vague suggestion of where to begin a story or poem. It can be in the form of a “what if” scenario, an introduction to a strange new character or describing one’s own reaction to a song. It can be anything.

My most recent encounter with a prompt came as a single word and went by the name “coffee.”

Phil has lately been sending me tons and tons of Craigslist postings of Journalism and blogging related jobs for my perusal. But, the other day, he came upon this entry labeled “writing contest.”

A group of editors are putting together an anthology of one-hundred short stories called The Coffee Shop Chronicles.

The instructions ask that all entries are from one paragraph to one page in length and include the name of the author’s favorite coffee shop. $100 cash prize is awarded to the most interesting story and all published entries will receive a twenty-five dollar coffee gift card.

My aim to write a one page short story, falling in line with the work I’ve been doing for my novel, turned into many pages, which means I probably won’t be able to submit it to The Coffee Shop Chronicles.

But, I am still grateful for the inspiration.

For the last year, I have been building a body of work, a project that I hope to turn into a novel, about the ups and downs of friendship and a break down of the gay best friend stereotype.

Like anything else that I’ve written for this story, the characters and scenarios are completely fictional but, are inspired by the lives of real people.

Please post any constructive feedback that you think would help make my story stronger. I want to produce the best writing possible.

—–
“Coffee Stains”
By Caitlin M. Foyt

“I don’t care that you have delusions that coffee stains your teeth,” Deidre sassed between breaths. “I need it.”

Her friend Tommy glared back at her but, he didn’t protest.

The premature Michigan winter winds thrashed the girl’s long brown hair and her hand instinctively flew up to hold fast her burnt orange beret. Her features scrunched into tiny wrinkles, a contortion the result of equal disgust for the cold and her inability to breathe.

She grabbed hold of Tommy’s hand for stability and the two pushed through the gale and the glass door of the coffee shop.

“Who’s idea was it to put an outdoor mall in Michigan, anyway? And whatever happened to winter lasting just three months out of the year?”

At six-three, he towered over his best friend. He shook himself out of his tan fitted jacket and faced his reflection in the glass door for guidance on how to fix his tangled mid-length hair.

“Well, it’s October, guy. And can you remember a single Halloween as a kid not wearing a snowsuit under your costume? This isn’t news.”Deidra unraveled her unending matching orange scarf and scanned the room for an open table.

“Precisely why there shouldn’t be outdoor malls,” he screetched. “Idiots. And speaking of idiots…” Tommy frowned at the soaked rug where he had hoped to wipe the moisture off of his brand new designer shoes, a pair whose outrageous price tag he was so proud of, he’d brought them up in conversation that afternoon on three separate occasions. He hesitated before stepping further into the store, looking around at the tile floor, which was saturated with puddles.

“If I wanted to fall on my ass” he started, suddenly speaking loudly enough for everyone in the coffee shop to hear him, “I would have stayed in that hurricane out in the parking lot.” His eyes flashed to the cashier at the effeminate-looking barista who was too busy helping a pair of middle-aged moms to notice the nervy gay man in the doorway.

Deidre’s whole face turned rosy as a 20-something year-old man with a beard, a tweed newsboy hat and thick black framed glasses looked up from his laptop and stared at them with indignation.

Tommy turned to her, his lips tightly puckered as though he had stepped in a pile of dog shit and realized it only from the awful stench in the air.

“Well, I guess you’ll care when the court notice comes in the mail,” he mumbled.

“Can you please behave yourself!” Deidre quietly hissed, smacking Tommy in thearm. “It would be nice if I could just once take you somewhere without you embarrassing me!”

Two high school kids, who appeared to be on a date, stopped talking to stare at them.

Tommy innocently smiled back at the kids. “I was just merely pointing out that it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” he softly enunciated each syllable through his unbroken smile, teeth clenched, and motioned to the floor.

Deidre’s face remained stern. She scanned the room again.

“OK,” she whispered. “I get that you don’t want to be here. Let’s just get a coffee. “Five minutes and we can leave. Promise.” She draped her coat and scarf over her arm as they approached the coffee counter, passing three open tables on her way. There was no way they’d be staying here to enjoy their coffee now.

It wasn’t about the puddles. It was never about something as simple as puddles. A slippery floor just meant treading carefully. With Tommy, you could be cautious every step of the way and it would still result in disaster. She sighed as she skimmed the menu.

Standing next to a rack of bagged French Roast beans, Deidre began to fidget uncomfortably. She felt guilty shopping here. Thoughts of the protesting voices of Free Trade organizations and her friend’s parents’ speaking of their struggling nearby local business floated through her mind.

“I don’t even like coffee, Deidre,” Tommy whined from her side, interrupting her thoughts.

“Quiet, Tommy. I’m trying to read.”

She already knew he hated coffee. He reminded her of this every time she mentioned the stuff. And Tommy had made it clear that he didn’t want to be here by glaring at her, never mind the fact that she wanted coffee. Tommy’s Rule No. 1 was that one must never do anything Tommy doesn’t want to do. And there were always consequences for disobeying Rule No. 1.

“White Strips, Tommy. White Strips.” Deidre didn’t look away from the menu, doing her best to get them out of there as quickly as possible.

“But they make my teeth sensitive. Remember when I did those for prom last year?” Deidre impatiently rolled her eyes, quickly growing tired of this conversation. “Even a tiny gust of wind would hurt so badly,” he put emphasis on the word tiny as he pinched the air to demonstrate the amount. “Never again.”

“You can drink it through a straw, you know,” she stammered. “That won’t affect your precious pearly whites.”

He froze. “I never thought of that.” He began to look over the menu. “Maybe I will get something.”

Deidre sighed again.

“Annnnnd…how are we doing over here?” The barista asked, his voice carrying a heavy lisp.

At first, all that she could see was his smile, blinding white and covering most of his face.The overly enthusiastic, pale and skinny barista, who probably had one too many shots of espresso himself, had suddenly hopped in front of Tommy and Deidre. His perfectly straight name tag identified him as Steve.

Tommy turned a moment to stare at Steve’s softly glowing skin, his blonde hair that poofed out over the top of his green visor and his single earring, before turning back to the menu.

“Do you guys have any seasonal drinks? Anything with pumpkin?” Deidre asked.

“We just got in our famous Pumpkin Spice Latte,” Steve announced in his best game show host voice. He pointed to photo advertisement that was posted right beside the cash register and Deidre felt foolish. “Perfect for getting you in the mood for this time of the year.”

Even his blue eyes grinned widely at Deidre and she could have sworn that his teeth sparkled.

“Sure… I’ll have that,” she smiled. “Make it a double.”

“It’s pretty cold out there, so something warm for you, yes?” He nodded at Tommy, who didn’t look away from the menu.

“You know, we’ve already done the weather discussion once today,” he snapped. “But, good effort, thanks.”

“Tommy!” Deidre elbowed him. “Be nice.”

“Don’t tell me how I should act in front of other people, Deidre” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Steve laughed heartily, apparently unfazed by the comment.

“Aw, I’m always a little crabby without my coffee, too,” he cooed.

Tommy ignored him and turned back to Deidre.

“What should I get?”

Deidre didn’t have a chance to answer.

“Our Pumpkin Spiced latte is great this time of year.” That’s when Steve began to deliver a pitch that the two sensed that he recited several hundred times per day. “It’s a delicious blend of pumpkin and traditional fall spice flavors combined with our signature espresso and freshly steamed milk. We can even top it off with whipped cream and cinnamon and nutmeg if you like!”

His smile was wider than ever.

Tommy turned to look at Deidre, whose grave expression read, “Behave.”

“It’s good?” Tommy turned and quietly asked Steve.

“It’s dee-licious!” he cheered. “I make two at the end of every shift! I love, love, love ‘em! I just LOVE ‘EM!” The barista’s right eye twitched before he returned to his trademark grin.

“Ok, then. Guess I’m having that,” Tommy mumbled.

“Ventis for you both, amiright?” Steve laughed.

“Talls are fine,” Deidre corrected him. She paid the man and she and Tommy sat at a small nearby table while their drinks were prepared.

To their left, the two middle-aged moms, in similarly cut, but different-colored sweat suits, chatted aggressively about their children’s soccer skills, ignoring the steaming cups of joe that sat before them.

“Do me a favor, don’t correct me in front of other people. K? It makes me feel like I’m four.” Tommy again glared at Deidre, the same kind he gave her outside.

She looked surprised. “K, sorry, geez. But, you were being a little mean to the guy. I had to do something.”

Tommy ignored this and looked back over to the occupied barista.

“The guy is such a bottom.” He paused for a dramatic effect. “I hate bottoms.”

Deidre thought back to that night at the gay bar when she first became aware of the term “bottom.” A group of gay men stood in a circle, brightly colored umbrellas on the edge of every drink, and giggled as Detroit gay circuit regular Marcus Halter passed by.

“He’s such a bottom,” one of the gays announced, laughing hysterically.

“What’s a bottom?” Diedre whispered inconspicuously to Tommy as the laugher faded.

“You know, he’s always on the bottom,” he said in matter of fact tone. “Bottoms are always bitchy.”

“Doesn’t he know that we’re not bleaching our hair anymore?” Tommy was staring at the barista with contempt.

“Tommy, I’m afraid you don’t speak on behalf of the entire gay community and thank god for that.”

“It’s a fact, Deed. How many people, even non-gay people, have you seen with their hair bleached recently?”

He turned to face her.

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m not exactly conscious to hair color, unless it’s some really out-there color. Like green or something.”

“Whatever. No one bleaches their hair anymore. No one.”

She sighed and turned to examine the door. The two friends were supposed to catch a movie later, but the way he’d been weighing on her nerves… she decided she would instead just drop him off at his house after they got their coffee. Tommy was the kind of friend who came with a timer. Deidre could only handle him in intervals.

“Just be nice for another couple of minutes. You can talk all of the shit you want in the car.”

Deidre never understood it, but Tommy was a gay who despised other gays. Notably those who were more flamboyant than he was.

“Two double Pumpkin Spiced lattes, one no whip, one extra whip!” Steve’s co-worker announced their order from behind the counter.

“I’ll go get them.” Tommy leaped up to go grab the coffees while Deidre collected their belongings and stood up, preparing to leave the shop.

He slowed his walk back over to his friend to sip the pumpkin latte.

“Ugh!”

Tommy’s face unevenly contorted, making it seem as though more skin from his nose and cheeks had found itself on the right side of his face than on the left.

“This is NASTY!”

He didn’t spit it out, which Deidre half-expected. Instead, he choked it down and his whole body quivered with disgust.

“What’s wrong with it?” Deidre calmly walked over to sample the drink herself. “Don’t like the pumpkin?”

“NO! It’s the drink I don’t like!” Tommy shouted, not at Deidre, but in the direction of the counter.

She took the cup from his hands, steam dancing from its tiny spout, and guardedly took a sip.

“It tastes fine, Tommy. I think you just don’t like the pumpkin.” She looked around the room and saw that Steve’s co-worker, the middle-aged moms, the bearded 20-something and the teenagers on the date were all silent and staring at them. Her face was beginning to turn red again.

“We can get you something different from the gas station,” she suggested, ushering him toward the door. “It’s time to leave.”

“No!” he insisted and started to storm toward the vacant counter, despite Deidre doing her best to push in front of him and block his path. He easily pushed her out of the way. “I’m going to get your money back.”
She was shorter than he was, and a lot lighter. Tommy grabbed hold of her by the shoulders to keep from slamming into her body, and then darted around her.

“Where’s Steve?” he shouted at the other barista. “Steve said THIS was GOOD!? Steve is a MORON!”

“Would you please just chill out? I don’t care about the money.” The volume of Deidre’s voice became louder. “Let’s just go.”

“Is there something the matter with your drink?” Steve coolly asked, suddenly behind the counter again.

“Yeah, there’s something wrong with it. It sucks. Pumpkin sucks,” Tommy stormed the counter again. “I have no idea why you would recommend this drink to anyone.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can give you a couple of coupons for a free beverage of your choice.” His grin wasn’t as large as it had once been, but he was still smiling politely.

“Listen, bottom!” Tommy’s emphasis on the syllables in the word bottom were hard, which made them sound especially mean. Steve’s smile disappeared from his face and he looked taken aback by the slur.

“We don’t want COUPONS,” he shouted, tiny drops of spit flinging out of his mouth with every word. “Starbucks sucks. We’re never coming back here again. I’m telling everyone I know that Starbucks is an awful, evil corporation and the employees that work here don’t care about the customers.”

“Yep, never coming back. That’s us. No one worry.” Deidre felt the room full of eyes on her and Tommy as she yanked hard on his arm, using all of her strength to pull him away from the counter and toward the door. But he was too heavy for her.

“You are shitty at your job and obviously you’re a shitty human being because you have to work here in the first place! You’re ugly and your hair looks like pubes.”

“TIME TO LEAVE, TOMMY!” Deidre began to shout over his insults.

Steve’s coworker began to walk toward Deidre and Tommy, and it sounded like he had begun to tell Tommy that it was time for him to leave, but it was difficult to hear over all of the shouting.

Deidre yanked hard one final time on her friend’s arm just as he, too, pulled away from her. She lost her balance, slipped in one of the puddles on the tile floor and fell hard to the ground. Her beret fell from her head as her elbow cracked loudly into a coffee display cabinet, spilling two clunky travel coffee mugs onto the ground.

The whole room went silent and the teenage boy abandoned his date momentarily to offer Deidre his outstretched hand. He cautiously pulled her off the floor, then bent down to pick up her fallen beret.

Instead of responding to his question of “Are you OK,” she just began to cry.

“I just want to go home,” Deidre whimpered and used her hat to wipe her eyes.

Tommy reached out for her hand, but she pulled away from him before he could make contact and ran out into the cold.

“And I’m suing your asses because your fucking slippery floor hurt my friend,” he shouted through the open door as he followed her out.

Deidre heard the sound of customers clapping — applauding because they were leaving — as she stomped out in the direction of her parked car. The high winds had met her at the door, but she hardly felt it burn on her face, exposed arms and neck as it had before.

Her mind was a spinning wheel of faces, each and every single one of those coffee shop patrons faces glaring at her, judging her. He jogged to catch up to her.

“Coffee?” his outstretched arm offered her the pumpkin latte.

She didn’t respond or look up at him as she ripped the cup from his grip. Her hot tears burned as they streamed down her cheeks and were taken by the wind.

“Look, I know I behaved badly back there. I overreacted and I’m sorry.”

Deidre stopped walking and turned to face Tommy.

“You’re sorry?” She laughed and wiped her eyes, further smearing the mascara across her current visage of contempt and disbelief.

“God, why couldn’t you just listen to me? For once? Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying to be friends with you.”

She started to tear away from him but, he quickly grabbed her firmly by the hand.

“Don’t be pissed at me. I know, I was selfish back there,” She looked up at his face, now home to a new pair of very sincere green eyes. “You know how I get.”

Deidre did know, but it really was no secret to anyone that Tommy was a bit of a bastard. He was often cold-hearted and malicious, a little child who cared for no one else but himself. Little of what she said to him ever seemed to matter because he never listened, she realized. For a moment, she imagined that when she spoke to him, Tommy could be found somewhere else, possibly daydreaming up a new and exciting way to dress her up for their next excursion to a public place or the line with which could effectively segue his newest snarky comment. She too often felt like an accessory, like the expensive shoes that matched his designer coat.

“I’m getting real tired of that excuse” came out as a grunt when she tore away from his grasp.

She could hear Tommy’s cries behind her but, the whipping winds distorted any meaning that they held.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t care less about what he had to say right now. He had some serious soul searching to do, she decided. She walked to the parking lot without looking back. When she reached her car, she pulled her coat over her shoulders, climbed inside and drove away.