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Want to know how I’ve been spending my nights recently?   Well, after revitalizing my desire for his timely demise, I’ve been doing some reconnaissance work.   A stakeout at the house of Brix – and I’m not usually on that side of the stake.  

But I’m being thwarted.   Dude is never fucking alone nowadays.   The jock posse and doe-eyed sympathizers are a leech mob at school, so a quiet lynch is out of the question – and a bevy of various bloody do-gooders have been dancing in constant attendance at his house.   Believe me, I’ve been checking.   Regularly.

Okay, yes: I could conceivably bite more than I could chew, but Brix has become an acquired taste I’m planning to savor.   In time.

Meanwhile, I vented my ‘frustrations‘ the other night on some guy downtown, putting out his garbage.   Thing is – I got interrupted.

 

“Hey.   You there.   What are you doing?”

I looked at her, sizing her up carefully.   The elderly neighbour leaning on her stick, nosy with reason and rhyme – grizzled hair curled into a ampersand, wrinkles underscoring all significant facial features, and a bright pink exclamation point of a dressing gown tied determinedly tight around the small dumpy frame.  

I smiled… no.  

 

I grinned.

“I’m killing him.   And eating him.   What’s it to you?”

She looks at me.

Then she says:

“Can I have some?”

I shrug.

“Sure.”

I pass over the limp body, and she helps herself with gusto.   When she’s finished, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and we roll the leftovers down the storm drain.   Then she dusts off her still bloody hands, and extends one to me.   We shake politely:

“Daisy.”  

“Jonathon.   Been around here long, Daisy?”

Her smile wrinkles crease up at once.

“Oh, ever since I retired from the whole living thing, you know.   I’m just a spring chicken though – it’s only been about a hundred and sixty years, so it’s still quite a novelty really.   Do you mind?”

She hooks her hand in the crook of my elbow as I stand there with my hands in my pockets, and then we walk up the street to her house.

“What about you, Jonathon?   You look like you’re an old soul – if you had one, of course.   Let me guess – three hundred?   Four?   Five: really?   Goodness me – you must put the evil in medieval, eh?”

She laughs heartily at the fucking awful joke, and pats my arm as we stop.

“This is me, old man.   Sharing your dinner, walking me to my door – what a gentleman.   I hope we meet again, Jonathon.”

“Wouldn’t be fucking surprised, Daisy.”

The slap is hard enough to make my teeth sting against my check, and to echo down the street.

“Hey?   What the fuck…?”

This time I duck in time, but only just.   She waggles a warning finger at me.

“None of your lip, old man.   None of that kind of talk around a lady.”

Then she clomps up the concrete stairs to her door in waltz time – one sensible shoe, two sensible shoe, third beat from the cane – waves cheerily, and disappears from view.

 

Fuck.   (Yeah, I know – call it poetic licence.)

Daisy is awesome.

Everything amuse should be.

 

NEXT ENTRY…

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3 Comments

  1. Wonderful.

    • Rosemarie Fullerton
    • Posted February 19, 2010 at 6:43 pm
    • Permalink
    • Reply

    Daisy sounds like my kind of woman. Great post.

  2. Awwww you made a new friend. I like her!


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