Injustices

Last summer,  Old Kitty  posted about Neil Gaiman’s writing prompt in The Guardian.  I saw the post too late, but the prompt stuck in my head:

It wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat.

My story definitely isn’t MG or YA. But it was fun to write. It's short and not very sweet. Enjoy!

Injustices

Theresa Milstein

It wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat.

While the radio murmured about war, government corruption, and other normal injustices, he sipped coffee from the mug in his right hand while the other held binoculars peeping between the blinds. If his ritual went according to plan, the caffeine and the woman dressing for work in the apartment building across the alley would wake him up.

His cursed cat interfered. 

Just as she danced into the bedroom—he always imagined some sexy song from Madonna blasting—and removed her towel, the cat jumped unwelcomed onto his lap. He startled. If the feline’s claws on his genitals hadn’t been jarring enough, the coffee searing his lap soon ruined any further opportunity for arousal.

By the time he’d ripped off the soiled pajamas, rubbed soothing lotion on his sore skin, and changed into new clothes, the woman had left for work.

He’d gone even grumpier than usual to the repetitive job he despised. The doctors sent bills. He made a charade of investigating for fraud, but everyone got paid in the end. If he ran the company, corruption would stop. But nobody listened to people who slaved in cubicles.

When he walked through his doorway after work, he kicked the whining cat out of the way. Everyone wanted something from him.

There would be one last chance to unwind from his sorry day when she undressed for bed. There’d be no towel. No dance. Her moves would be slower and the removal would take longer. But he’d have his moment to imagine she was his.

He sipped his glass of cabernet with his right hand while his left cradled the binoculars peering through the blinds. He’d locked the cat in the closet to prevent a repeat of that morning’s sin. Nothing would interfere with his nightly ritual.

She shuffled into the bedroom, clearly as tired as he felt. He imagined her enduring a job in customer service. If only they could converse about the injustices that led to their lousy day. She would listen. She would understand.

He watched her gaze at her reflection in the mirror, but she couldn’t see him gazing at her. He inhaled, drawing the imagined scent of the perfume on her bureau inside him. As she removed her bracelet, he sat up straighter. She unclasped her necklace. He set down the glass.

That’s when an intruder stepped out of her closet, gun in hand. She noticed the intruder in the mirror’s reflection at the same time he did. Her mouth formed a perfect O as she whirled around.

No! Not his woman. He jumped up, spilling the wine while the intruder closed the curtains across the alley.

He stared at his bleeding pants as the gun fired.

Night was shot too. And what would he do to occupy his time during tomorrow morning’s coffee?