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The room smells of poverty, rot, and old age. A heap
of yellowed, tattered blankets begins to stir on a yellowed, tattered couch. The blankets are thrown back, and
a wave of body odor and old-person smell invades the room. A woman, more wrinkled than an English Bulldog, appears.
She stands, her lime-green polyester pants stained and torn in places. Shuffling through the layers of newspaper
on the floor, she disappears into the kitchen.
A cabinet door creaks, and then a can opener grinds unwillingly into service. The woman returns to the couch, settling
herself on top of the blankets. An open can is in one hand, a dirty fork resting on top. The other hand reaches
to stroke what appears to be dirty pile of moldy cloth. To an onlooker, the woman would appear insane, talking
to herself and petting inanimate objects. But the pile of moldy cloth stirs at her touch, and its shape resolves
itself into that of an ancient, scarred feline.
Weakly meowing, the cat sits up and stretches. Its back legs no longer work due to an accident with a moving van
a year ago. Now it is reduced to lying on the couch, hand-fed and set gently on the floor for precisely half an
hour each day for a bathroom break. Yesterday the old woman got distracted by something she could see out the window,
and did not place the cat back in its position on the couch for several hours. Its feces cling to its back legs
because of this.
"Morning, Mr. Whiskers." The woman rumbles, her voice roughened by age and nicotine. "Breakfast."
She holds the fork out to the cat delicately. It stretches its neck and takes the bit of food she offers. Chewing
in small, energetic bites, it swallows. The fork returns to the metal can, scoops out an even larger portion. The
fork moves toward the cat, hesitates, and turns. The woman chews once, swallows. A coughing fit overcomes her,
and at the end of the fit, she wipes white goo from her mouth with the edge of the blanket.
"One should always chew precisely twenty times before swallowing, Mr. Whiskers." She adds, sticking the
fork back into the can. "One must not get anxious."
A bite for the cat, a bite for the woman. Back and forth it goes until the can is empty. Looking down in surprise,
the woman studies the empty can and withdraws the fork. Placing both fork and can into a pile of rusted, mildewed
metal on the floor, she stumbles to the front door. Opening it a crack, she bends her creaking, dirt encrusted
knees and picks up yesterday's paper, which a neighbor leaves every morning.
"News, Mr. Whiskers." She stays where she is standing and methodically tears the front page into strips
about an inch across and three inches long. The rest goes on the floor for kitty litter.
Rolling the strips into cylinders, she stuffs leaves from a plastic plant into the makeshift cigarettes. Soon this
plant, like all the others, will be bare. She tips a cup of water over the pot the plant lives its false existence
in, and the water runs down the wall to puddle tiredly on the floor. Another puddle joins the first, running down
the leg of the woman.
"Oopsie, Mr. Whiskers. Forgot my potty time. Good thing we put down papers." She drops the toxic plastic
cigarettes into the yellow puddle. Luckily there are no lighters in the house and the gas for the stove was cut
off months ago.
FastCounter by bCentral
For more, visit the Author's Web Site at: http://www.thursdaypass.blog.com
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