February blog exchange
You'll probably want to know what happened after she got off the carousel and we went home, but I don't feel like going into it. I felt so damn happy while I watched her, but when she came back over to me, her blue coat was ripped.
"What happened to your coat?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "I don't know." She looked up at me. "Are you going to tell Mother and Daddy where you've been?"
I almost fell over when she said that. I'd nearly forgotten about all that stuff. It was like I was just home for Christmas, not that I'd gotten kicked out. Those three days seemed like three goddam years.
"Well, what do you think?" I could be just as snotty as she could.
"What'll you do? You can't hitchhike out west like you said. You'll have to go back to school." She let go of my hand and turned her face away.
"Maybe. Maybe not. For Chrissakes, I can go get a job." She was started to depress me again.
"But you don't like anything. How can you get a job when you don't even like anything?"
"I told you; I like you and talking to you. Maybe I can get a job at your school. I can take the kids to the museum and tell them about the Indians and the Eskimos."
She didn't look at me, but I could tell she was listening.
"And I'll keep the kids from seeing all the bad stuff out there," I said, thinking of all the goddam "f*** you" signs. Somebody had to erase those.
She stopped in front of our building and looked through the doors. "You better tell them something," she said. Then she took my hand and kissed it.
"I will." I tugged at the belt of her coat as the doorman held open the door, and we went upstairs together.
- - - - -
Julie is a mother to two maniacal little girls and wife to one beer-swilling man. When she's not imitating psychologically-unstable teen angst, she's writing at mothergoosemouse.com. Please see Damselfly's blog exchange post at her site today.
"What happened to your coat?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "I don't know." She looked up at me. "Are you going to tell Mother and Daddy where you've been?"
I almost fell over when she said that. I'd nearly forgotten about all that stuff. It was like I was just home for Christmas, not that I'd gotten kicked out. Those three days seemed like three goddam years.
"Well, what do you think?" I could be just as snotty as she could.
"What'll you do? You can't hitchhike out west like you said. You'll have to go back to school." She let go of my hand and turned her face away.
"Maybe. Maybe not. For Chrissakes, I can go get a job." She was started to depress me again.
"But you don't like anything. How can you get a job when you don't even like anything?"
"I told you; I like you and talking to you. Maybe I can get a job at your school. I can take the kids to the museum and tell them about the Indians and the Eskimos."
She didn't look at me, but I could tell she was listening.
"And I'll keep the kids from seeing all the bad stuff out there," I said, thinking of all the goddam "f*** you" signs. Somebody had to erase those.
She stopped in front of our building and looked through the doors. "You better tell them something," she said. Then she took my hand and kissed it.
"I will." I tugged at the belt of her coat as the doorman held open the door, and we went upstairs together.
- - - - -
Julie is a mother to two maniacal little girls and wife to one beer-swilling man. When she's not imitating psychologically-unstable teen angst, she's writing at mothergoosemouse.com. Please see Damselfly's blog exchange post at her site today.
posted by Damselfly at 6:57 AM
6 Comments:
Hmmm, I sense a pop culture reference I'm not quite getting... but it was fun reading all the same. Love your forays into fiction.
I don't know, either, but I like the story and the telling.
Love it. And... no guess.
Hrmm. I don't know!
Is it Mary Kay Letourneau?
Am I insane for going there?
Love the voice here. You really know how to inhabit a voice, which is something that I haven't mastered, in fiction. Hats off.
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