It's fiction dontcha know. If you've made it this far, you were probably invited. Enjoy the writing process with me and feel free to leave feedback.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

It didn't matter

that it was 9:20 on a Tuesday morning. Mr. Sunshine hadn't stirred since I'd left the room almost two hours before. He was still lying flat on his back, limbs sprawled in all directions as if he'd landed there from 50 feet above. Spittle had crusted at the corner of his mouth and a damp spot on the pillow case hadn't yet dried. He was a mouth breather.

"Are you going to get up?" I asked, imagining being able to spit venom. Nothing.

"I said, are you getting up?"He snuffed his allergic sinuses and wollered over onto his side. The middle of the bed must be much more comfortable. The baby scampered in on all fours and picked up a dirty tube-sock .

"N-no, Sugarbaby. Dirty." I nabbed it from her little cherub hand and threw it at the lump on the bed. Neither of them were phased, she made an about-face and scuttled across the hall for the girls' bedroom and he didn't flinch.

"You know you two clients have called this morning and I am tired of lying. Get UP!"

"Uhnnn, I'm gettin' up, damn! Cut me some slack! Gahhhd!" and he snatched the sheet up over his head.

"Fine. Rot." I said and yanked the door closed on my way out. Twenty minutes later, the shower ran for the usual 30 minutes. Thudding down the stairs, there he is, Mister America.

"Pancakes. On the table." I left the plate-full, turned on my heel for the laundry closet.

"I can't believe that's all we have left to eat. I'm not eating freaking pancakes again. Let's just go to my dad's house and eat over there."

"You know, we're 28 years old. We're not doing this again. We can't just go over there and hope they're getting ready to have lunch or, if they're not, just casually rifle through their fridge looking for food. You go, we're fine. If you'd get these contracts finished, we'd have plenty of money$5,000 for Newman, $12,000 for Sawyer that’s all there is to it. You work, we eat." Another tragic genius. The guy painted Biblical scenes like Michelangelo incarnate. He had a client waiting list as long as Moses' beard and a personal portfolio of pornographic renderings he could have sold for more than the commissioned pictures of Jesus. Tragic indeed.

It was my job to market his talent, his work, and run PR relay when his anti-depressants ran out or he'd decided he didn't need them anymore. Here and there I'd taken odd clerical jobs through the local Kelly office to help make ends meet until he got his foothold in the niche industry of ecclesiastical art. In the mean time, there were two girls to clothe and feed. I had dreams of my own--a law degree that had been calling my name for many years.

"As soon as I start really getting going here we should be cool to get you into school," he'd say when I'd turn up the heat about my own dreams. "now's just not a good time, y'know?"


Byron was off to his dad's house five miles across town to "the studio" to paint. It was already just about time naptime for the baby before he finally shuffled his sandals on and made it out the door. He slid into the family car, the one that ran, and floored the four-cylinder leaving the street row of duplexes in his wake.


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