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?
