More Sugar, Please – Fiction Friday

Well, hello readers;

Here I sit with Friday nipping at my heels and a blank word-processing screen in front of me.

“Sally, what are you going to write about?”  Says that voice I have attributed to ZakGirl.

“Ah, Zak, I don’t know.  I’m hoping something comes to my fingertips while I’m typing up this conversation that never happened.”

“Remember the story Stephen King wrote about a word processor where the writer could actually delete real life problems?  He’d type them in and wipe them out.  I can’t do that.  Why did the King beat me to all of the good stuff?

“You’re stalling, Sally.  Chop Chop!  Friday’s coming.”

“Oh, Zak, look.  Is that a cow on the wrong side of the gate?”

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 More Sugar, Please

“No, dear, I’m not angry.  Everyone slips up now and again.  Sure, you put sugar in my gas tank.”  Mike crushed the tablet under the bowl of the spoon.  “It was just a momentary lapse in judgment.”

“I don’t know why I drank that much to start with.  I should have gone for the pot instead.  Then I’d still be talking about the nipple clamps and it never would have gone that far.”  JoAnne scooped up the sheets and pillow from the couch.

“Coffee’s ready and I made you some oatmeal.  It should help take the edge off the hangover.”  It should take the edge off her sharp tongue.  Mike put just a few drops of the good stuff into the steaming cup he’d set out for his beloved.

“Thanks, and I really am sorry about last night.”  JoAnne scooped up a bite, then reached for more sugar.

“Till death do us part.”  Mike mumbled.

“What did you say?  I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said it’s a good start.  You know, the rest of our lives.  I think we can put this little um, misunderstanding behind us.”

JoAnne scraped the bowl for the last bite and closed it inside the dishwasher.  “I’m going to have the rest of this coffee out on the porch.”

Mike waited on the horrid couch that had become his bed.  About an hour passed and he tip-toed out to the porch.  JoAnne had nodded off on the cold metal lawn chair.  Her neck was going to hurt for the rest of the day if she woke up.

“JoAnne?”  Mike leaned in close to check her breathing.  Her spectacular breasts were motionless.  I worked an extra job for those damned things and everybody but me got to use ‘em.  “JoAnne, can you wake up?”

Mike stood up and rested his butt on the porch railing.  “Jo.”  He said flatly.  He stayed there for a few minutes taking stock of the work he’d paid for.  Her hair has never looked better and the clothes.  Maybe the Battered Women’s Shelter can parse them out to women looking for work.

“Jo, if you can hear me, I’m sorry about what happened.”  Mike fished JoAnne’s car keys out of her purse.

On the way to the garage, Mike scrunched his cell out of his front pants pocket.

“Mandy? It’s me, why don’t we do lunch today.  Yes.  The usual place.  I’ll have JoAnne’s car.  You won’t believe what she did last night.  I’ll tell you the whole story but you have to pick up the tab.”

Fiction Friday Posts 

Come back next week and don’t touch anything sharp.