“What a royal screw-up!” She sits on the floor and looks slowly around the room. “It doesn’t look like a felon’s room’” she thinks, but then again, what does it look like? She’s sure there will be press along with the local police. Way too good a story to waste. “Local teacher ‘offs’ boyfriend!” She’s sure she will be on the evening news, probably all over the Internet too.
Maybe she has always been drawn to bad boys because that’s what she grew up with. Her father knocked her mom around plenty of times. He never hit his kids, maybe because her mom stood in as the punching bag.
Dating Max gave her a thrill—a Timothy Olyphant lookalike without the badge. He was a musician; she a writer when she wasn’t forcing disgruntled students to read. Not only could he cook, but he made her purr when they were in bed together. “You’re my muse,” he confided, and she believed him.
But what was the old rhyme about the little girl with a curl? “When she was good, she was very, very good. When she was bad, she was horrid.” That was Max all over.
It started when he began staying out all night - he didn’t have the decency to text and let her know he was OK. While this wasn’t the first time, they had special plans last night. She’d spent all day cooking his favorite foods - roast pork with a sweet bourbon glaze, wild rice, and roasted asparagus - an orange semifreddo for dessert, which challenged every cooking molecule she’d ever possessed.
Things had been tense for the last few months since she had an abortion. They agreed it wasn’t the time for a baby, not while he was unemployed and her teaching contract was about to expire. The baby would have been a girl, and she’d already picked out a name. But it had been flushed down the toilet or wherever they sent unborn fetuses.
In the morning, he finally came home. They fought all day. She cried. He yelled. She cried some more. The dog hid under the bed and wouldn’t come out.
“Where the hell were you?” she demands.
”None of your damn business.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
He grabs a beer bottle and hits the wall, creating flashbacks of her father.
He starts to walk out the door.
God, she loves this man. He can’t leave her. She is his muse.
She doesn’t know how a knife gets in her hand. She doesn’t know when it leaves. She stares at the bloody handle; it’s her favorite paring knife, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to use it again.
She calls 911 and sits on the floor. She thinks about Max and their future together. She thinks about Max and their unborn baby, flushed down the toilet. She wonders what she will tell the police.
The police finally arrive, guns drawn. They seem almost disappointed to see her sitting quietly, hands in her lap. When the Sargent begins to ask questions, all she can say is, “Yes, Officer. No, Officer.”
“Pretty lame for a writer,” she concludes to herself. “But there it is.”
— opelikakat
Maybe she has always been drawn to bad boys because that’s what she grew up with. Her father knocked her mom around plenty of times. He never hit his kids, maybe because her mom stood in as the punching bag.
Dating Max gave her a thrill—a Timothy Olyphant lookalike without the badge. He was a musician; she a writer when she wasn’t forcing disgruntled students to read. Not only could he cook, but he made her purr when they were in bed together. “You’re my muse,” he confided, and she believed him.
But what was the old rhyme about the little girl with a curl? “When she was good, she was very, very good. When she was bad, she was horrid.” That was Max all over.
It started when he began staying out all night - he didn’t have the decency to text and let her know he was OK. While this wasn’t the first time, they had special plans last night. She’d spent all day cooking his favorite foods - roast pork with a sweet bourbon glaze, wild rice, and roasted asparagus - an orange semifreddo for dessert, which challenged every cooking molecule she’d ever possessed.
Things had been tense for the last few months since she had an abortion. They agreed it wasn’t the time for a baby, not while he was unemployed and her teaching contract was about to expire. The baby would have been a girl, and she’d already picked out a name. But it had been flushed down the toilet or wherever they sent unborn fetuses.
In the morning, he finally came home. They fought all day. She cried. He yelled. She cried some more. The dog hid under the bed and wouldn’t come out.
“Where the hell were you?” she demands.
”None of your damn business.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
He grabs a beer bottle and hits the wall, creating flashbacks of her father.
He starts to walk out the door.
God, she loves this man. He can’t leave her. She is his muse.
She doesn’t know how a knife gets in her hand. She doesn’t know when it leaves. She stares at the bloody handle; it’s her favorite paring knife, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to use it again.
She calls 911 and sits on the floor. She thinks about Max and their future together. She thinks about Max and their unborn baby, flushed down the toilet. She wonders what she will tell the police.
The police finally arrive, guns drawn. They seem almost disappointed to see her sitting quietly, hands in her lap. When the Sargent begins to ask questions, all she can say is, “Yes, Officer. No, Officer.”
“Pretty lame for a writer,” she concludes to herself. “But there it is.”
— opelikakat
Writing really has nothing to do with speech in real situations. For that, one needs improv classes. Anyway, she done did it. Probably won't have worries about teaching or not-teaching for a while. I like the balance of dialogue and description. I like her mental lacuna regarding how Max actually died. I loved the Timothy Olyphant mention. Ooooh yeah. Very absorbing piece, opelicakat ! ---Macoff
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