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Baby Kitty, that is not where you're face should be.

Baby Kitty, that is not where your face should be.

 

“Charles is having an affair,” Margo blurted out.

She glanced away, staring out the window as if she had just told me she bought a handbag that cost more than my mortgage. There was no point asking. Margo never said anything unless she was sure.

I glanced around the restaurant at the other ladies lunching. A lady at the next table was picking through a salad – no dressing, no cheese, no chicken, no onions. Onions were carbs she’d said. Her friend, just as thin, had plowed her way through a shrimp cocktail, egg rolls, and was now working her way through nachos. I noticed she went to the ladies’ room between each dish.

I love food too much to be anorexic and not enough to be bulimic, I thought, cutting into my lasagna, with cheese, meat, sauce, and extra bread.

The restaurant was filled with bored ladies politely tearing each other and their husband’s down. I was a fresh water fish in salt water. Margo wasn’t like these women. She met Charles in college, worked as hard as he did to make his career. Strip away the Prada and Gucci and she was just a girl from a farm in Texas somewhere no one had ever heard of.

“I’ve started my garden.” Margo was back.

“Forget the garden. What are you doing to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you contacted an attorney?”

“An attorney? God no. Do you think he has?”

“You’d know if he had.”

“People are like shoes, you know. You remember when I was in college. I was a strappy pair of heels. I was cute and sassy. Men were attracted to me. I could have my pick. Then Charles and I got married. We settled down. I became what he needed me to be sensible, intelligent, hardworking – yoga shoes. You think a doctor would appreciate a good pair of nurses’ shoes. But no, he takes up with a pair of trampy stelletto’s.

“Men are like that, they’d rather have a pair of vinyl shoes with a little extra silicone in the toes.” I was trying to stick with the shoe metaphor, but failed.

“What?”

Margo looked at me, brows wrinkled, frowning. She smiled, then laughed. Not fake laughter like that from the tables all around us, but real laughter.

Her blond curls tossed as she laughed. She was still cute, maybe not as sassy. I hope the old Margo was still in there.

“You can take the house.” I was trying to steer Margo towards reality.

“The house?”

“You can take the house in the country and Charles can take the apartment in the city.”

“No, I don’t want the house. I mean, I want the house. I don’t want a divorce.”

“But he’s cheating on you. You have to get a divorce. Everyone whose spouse cheats gets a divorce.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want a divorce.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t have to play by their rules. I can make up my own.”

Perhaps the old Margo was in there somewhere.

Don’t forget Mother’s Day

Don’t miss out on the Deals of the Day

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I think this demonstrates when it could come in useful.

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I hate it when I’m working late at night. All’s quiet and dark, when my cursor starts moving across the screen like the pointer on a Ouija Board. It scares the crap out of me. I’m like, “Grandma?”

 

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“My first mistake, falling in love with my enemy. My second, not killing him when I had the chance.” The first line of The Novel With No Name and hasn’t been started yet. What do you think?

I was challenged to try First Line Friday by Rami Ungart at https://ramiungarthewriter.wordpress.com/. Okay, Rami I accept your challenge.

You can play along at home. Here’s what you do.

  1. Create a post on your blog titled #FirstLineFriday, hashtag and all.
  2. Explain the rules like I’m doing now.
  3. Post the first one or two lines of a potential work, a work-in-progress, or a completed or published story.
  4. Ask your readers for feedback and then encourage them to try #FirstLineFriday on their blogs (tagging is encouraged but not necessary).

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“I can’t believe she wants us in at six. It’s one in the morning,” I’m complaining to the rest of my team members on the verge of another meltdown.

“I’m exhausted,” another of my team members, Kevin confesses.

We pile into the waiting taxi, a minivan that can hold us all.

“We’re in Paris and we haven’t seen anything that isn’t between the hotel and the office.” Sarah agrees, sounding as frustrated as I feel.

The van pulls to a stop in front of the hotel.

“We just have to hold it together for just two more weeks,” says Kyle, our 6’2” cheerleader, trying to rally us as he opens the van door.

I climb out of the van.

“We’ve been working like this for six weeks. I can’t think anymore,” I say, yelling at the rest of the team on the verge of another meltdown.

Kyle grabs the back of my head and shoves my face into his armpit.

“What are you doing?” I ask or maybe scream, smacking him with my ineffectual fists.

“Calming you down. Male musk has a calming effect on females.”

“Do I seem calm?” I’m still struggling to extract my head from his armpit.

“If you would just let biology work,” he says, finally releasing my head.

“I’m going to let anatomy work if you ever do that again.”

 

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