Tag Archives: Short story

One Special Day

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Sherry watched woefully as her classmate Sabrina handed out bright yellow envelopes to the girls in the class. One by one eyes lit up and smiles creased faces as the envelopes were torn open. Squeals of delight filled the air.

Sherry crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping desperately that this time she would be included. As the pile slowly got smaller, she knew, due to years of experience, that once again she would be left out. It didn’t mean she couldn’t dream, however, that things had changed.

It brought tears to her eyes, watching all those happy faces, yearning to be among them as an equal. But she wasn’t equal Far from it. Her old-fashioned clothes made her stand out amid all the rest. Who wore seersucker skirts and gingham dresses?

No one. That’s who.

And her shoes. They didn’t help either. Her doctor insisted on saddle oxfords to support her weak arches. Sherry hated them.

She wanted Nikes or Keds: black and gray or blue and white, with the distinguishing logo on the side so that she could be like the other kids.

Even her hair distinguished her from the pack. Her classmates all had brown or black or blonde hair. But not her.   Bright red curls surrounded her head, forming a wild halo of color. No one else had red hari except for Billy, a rather odd-looking boy who often trailed after her, calling her names, pushing her from behind and pulling her hair while he cackled like a witch.

He was excluded from the boy groups just as she was from the girls.

Sherry had tried to convince her mom to cut her hair, to keep it close to her had so that she didn’t look like a crazy person, but her mom would have none of it. Her mom’s hair was just as red, just as curly, but she saw it as a source of pride, not embarrassment.

Sherry practically drooled as Sabrina neared her on the playground. Only one card left. Only one invitation to hand out. Only one girl not holding one.

As Sabrina walked up to Sherry, the girl’s face broke into a huge smile. Sherry trembled with excitement. This was it! She was no longer an outcast!

Sabrina’s hand slowly extended toward Sherry. Closer and closer the envelope came.

Was this going to be the time when she got invited?

Granted, when she was little she attended quite a few parties, but that was because of the rule that everyone got invited or no one did.

Those were the good days. Days when she didn’t feel different.

But in elementary school things changed. There were no rules, so kids could pick and choose who to invite. As soon as the teasing began in first grade, no invitations ever came her way.

She was in fourth grade now and should have known better. But she got good grades, never got in trouble, never teased other students, never gossiped. Surely the other kids noticed.

And so she smiled back at Sabrina. As the card got close enough to touch, Sherry extended her hand, ready to receive it with the increasing joy she felt welling inside.

Just as Sherry’s fingers neared the edge of the envelope, Sabrina moved past her. “Mrs. Allen?” Sabrina said. “Would you like to come to my party?”

Sherry turned around and looked at the smile on her teacher’s face.

Once again, she stood out. She was the odd girl. The one no one wanted at their party.

 

Sleaze Supreme

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“Did you hear the rumor about our dear principal?”

“No.”

“Well,” said Tom Smythe, the senior Government teacher at Valley Christian High School, as he leaned back with a rather smug look, “it’s a really great story.”

Debbie Alsop, a first year teacher, asked, “What’s being spread around now?”

“Supposedly he’s been accused of sexual harassment, just like in his last district.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jim cornered a young teacher.  She filed a sexual harassment suite that looks pretty solid.”

“Come on, Tom, you’re always stirring up trouble. Don’t you think the director checked Mr. Perry’s record before hiring him?”

“You are so naïve,” Tom said as he leaned back in his chair.  “Wait until he puts his hands on you.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Debbie said as she grabbed her pile of essays and walked away.  She was so angry rage spilled out of her pores.  Tom and his rumormonger friends ruined more than one teacher’s career, simply because they had the power to do so.  Anyone with a work ethic, anyone who was a good teacher, was a potential target.  Debbie knew she was their next victim thanks to an inside tip from a veteran teacher, and so she kept herself clear of Tom and his pack of liars.

Debbie stomped down the hall past a pair of teenagers locked in a passionate embrace, past a young teen defacing a hallway mural, and past a group of smokers who quickly formed a defensive circle as she breezed past, paying as much attention as a fly with cataracts. While students were expected to leave shortly after the last bell, it wasn’t unusual to find clusters of them openly defying the rules.  The first few days of school Debbie challenged the defiant ones, but when she was not supported by administration, she chose temporary blindness as a reaction. It was easier that way.

After unlocking her classroom door, Debbie plopped her papers on the worktable at the back of her room, turned on her stereo to a soft rock station, and then simply sat. Brushing off her anger, Debbie immersed herself in the essays, reading primarily for content, but hoping for glimmers of brilliance from her otherwise apathetic students.  She did not hear her classroom door open, nor the barely discernible touch of expensive leather soles crossing the carpeted floor.

When strong hands squeezed both shoulders, Debbie screamed.  She grabbed for the hands, trying to pry them off her shoulders, but to no avail. Suddenly warm breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck, little puffs that sent shivers rolling down her spine. The hands held Debbie firmly in place, stopping her from pulling away or even turning to see the attacker’s face. She squeaked, “Who are you?  What do you want?”

“Relax, Debbie,” said a softly crooning voice.  “It’s me, your old pal.”

The hands released her as quickly as they had pinned her down.  Debbie’s chair spun around almost from its own volition, stopping only when she was inches from the hazel eyes of Jim Perry.  “You frightened me, Jim.  That wasn’t fair.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of, now, is there?”  He spun Debbie back around, returned his hands to her shoulders and immediately applied a deep massage.  “I came by to see how you were doing.  You didn’t stop by my office today, so I was worried about you.”

She struggled to fight off the lethargy creeping from her shoulders down her back. While the massage felt incredible, something about his nearness repulsed her. Debbie shrugged her shoulders, trying to wrench away from Jim’s grip, but his hands refused to let go. “I have a lot of work to do,” she stammered. “I, uh, didn’t know you wanted to see me.”

“I had been planning to visit your classroom anyway,” he said as his right hand slid down Debbie’s spinal column, caressing each vertebra.  “I’ve heard that the student work you have displayed is phenomenal.”  The hand traced the line of her bra, moving from armpit to armpit, traveling around the front, stopping just as his fingers contacted the swelling of each breast.

Uncomfortable with the uninvited touch, Debbie tried to think of a way to disengage from the situation without angering the man who literally held her fate in his hands. “Tell you what.  Let’s go to your office right now.”  She tried to push out of her chair, but Jim’s hands flew back to her shoulders, holding her firmly in place.  He squeezed so hard that tears filled her eyes.  “You’re hurting me.  Please stop.”

“You’re fine.  So fine.  Just relax.”  Jim resumed his massage while keeping his left hand on Debbie’s shoulder. As his hand “accidentally” brushed her breast, he said, “Let’s stay here where no one will interrupt our conversation.”  His right hand tiptoed across her cheek, her neck, around the outside of her ear, and the outline of her quivering lips. “I locked your door when I came in, so we are quite safe.  Quite alone,” he murmured as his kissed her hair along her neckline.

Tremors shook Debbie’s body and tears slid from her eyes.  Again she reached for Jim’s hands, hoping to stop his increasingly incessant explorations of her upper torso, but he craftily avoided her bumbling attempts. “It’s time for me to go,” she said.  “My ride is waiting.”  Her heart pounded so loudly she thought for sure he could hear it.

“I’ll give you a ride home when we’re finished.”  His handsome face moved near hers again, his blue eyes glittering like ice, his cheeks crimson, and his breath coming in ragged puffs. “You are so beautiful and so smart,” he said as his index finger brushed her lips.  In an exaggerated motion, Jim then touched his own lips, inserted the offending finger in his own mouth, and caressed it with his tongue.

“Stop, please,” Debbie said.  “I really do need to leave.  My car is in the shop and my roommate is coming to pick me up.”

“There’s something on your cheek,” Jim said.  He leaned so close that she could smell his lunchtime latte and burger with fries.  She gasped when his tongue tenderly licked away tears streaming down her cheeks.  “Everything is going to be alright,” he crooned.  “Relax.  Jim Perry is a magician who makes all pain disappear.  Let me work my magic.”

He framed her chin with one large hand, pulled her close with the other, and kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth.  Gagging, Debbie pulled away, saying, “I’m, uh, expecting a phone call any moment to tell me my car is ready. I need to pack up my things.”

“You’re lying,” Jim said as he deftly pulled over a nearby chair and sat, knees touching hers, hands resting on her thighs. “I don’t think you’re expecting a call.  In fact, your car is right next to mine. I checked before I walked out here. Why are you playing games with me?”

“I’m not.  Maybe my roommate picked up my car for me.  Let me call her to check.”  Debbie reached for her phone, but his hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist.  As Jim pulled her back to him, he twisted her hand until there was an audible pop.  “Stop!  You’re hurting me,” she cried.

As he pulled her to him he said, “I don’t like it when people play games with me.”  He leaned forward, staring into Debbie’s eyes, his own eyes hard and frightening.  He forced his tongue into her mouth, holding her head in a pincer-like grasp. Jim’s right hand went under her blouse, rooted around for her breasts, and squeezed so hard she gasped. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered into her left ear, his afternoon whiskers scratching her cheek.

Saying nothing, pretending to relax into the probing kisses, Debbie slid her hands up Jim’s chest and then pushed as hard as she could. Taken by surprise, he lost his hold, and the chair slid a foot away. Seizing the opportunity, she jumped up and ran to the opposite side of the room. “I have a lot to do, Mr. Perry.  I think you should leave now.”

“Since when did I become Mr. Perry? Aren’t we good friends?”  He languorously stood, brushing down the front of his black slacks while staring into her eyes.

“Yes. Of course,” she said as she silently slid closer to the wall phone.

“Haven’t I been a great help to you? Don’t I listen to your concerns?”

“Yes,” Debbie said as he strode toward her. “But I really do have a lot of papers to grade.  I think you should leave.”

“I think you need a break,” Jim said as he quickly cut off her path. He grabbed her arms, forcing her against the classroom wall. “Quit fighting me.  I know you want this,” he said as his breathing quickened.  He pulled Debbie’s arms up over her head, crossed her wrists, and then smashed them against the wall with his left hand.  He placed his right leg between Debbie’s legs, his chest smothering hers. Jim’s fingers found her buttons, and slowly, ever so slowly, he undid each one.  “That’s better,” he said. “Now you’ll be more comfortable.  It’s very warm in here.  Why don’t you turn in a work order to get the air conditioning fixed?”

“Please, Jim, stop.”

“Stop what, darling?” He blew into her ear as he ran his left hand under her bra.  “You’re my special project.  You know that, right?  The moment I met you, I marked you as someone I could work with.”  Jim slathered her neck and face with kisses.

His lips brushed hers once again, light as butterflies bouncing from flower to flower. “Stop,” Debbie mumbled as she tried to escape Jim’s amorous clutches.

Jim slid one hand down her chest, touching the waistband of her slacks.  He forced his fingers under the band, beneath her underwear, pushing deeper and deeper as his breathing came in ragged bursts. Debbie struggled, wriggling her hips in an attempt to get away, but that only seemed to intensify Jim’s probing.  The only thing she could think to pretend to relax into his embrace, then wait for an opportunity for escape.

“You like this, don’t you, Baby?”  He kissed her ears, her neck, and her breasts while his hand moved further down her body.  Jim was so preoccupied that he didn’t hear her cries, didn’t recognize her futile attempts at resistance. Jim slipped his coffee-enhanced tongue deeper into Debbie’s mouth, causing her to gag once again.

Empowered by nausea, she found the strength to push Jim away and ran to the nearest garbage can.  Bile filled her mouth over and over again.

“Hey!  You didn’t tell me you were sick,” he said as a look of horror crossed his face.  “My God, you’ve given me the flu!”  He took a starched white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his lips and tongue.

“It isn’t my fault,” Debbie said as she shakily stood.  “You’re the one who kissed me.  Touched me.  I thought you were my friend.  Instead you’re as sleazy as the rumors say.”  She moved toward the phone, picked up the receiver and held it out like a weapon.  “This is an act of sexual harassment,” she said, surprising even herself with her strength.  “I intend to report your actions to Officer Young.”

Jim’s face reddened as he rearranged his mussed clothing and put his handkerchief away.  “I think you are mistaken, Ms. Alsop,” he said in a voice as sweet as whipped cream.  “I came to your classroom to talk to you about your lack of management skills.  To let you know that a pink slip will arrive before March 15.  Your teaching career is finished, unless you are willing to cooperate with me as your principal and mentor.”  He stared at Debbie, his eyes glittering with anger.

She punched in Young’s numbers.  She listened to four rings, saddened when Voice Mail kicked in.  Staring at Jim, she calmly said, “This is Debbie Alsop.  Please call me at 4366 when you have an opportunity.  I want to report an incident of sexual harassment.”

As she hung up the phone, Jim ran his hands down the sharp creases of his trousers. Staring at Debbie, he said, “If you report what happened here, you won’t be back next year. Maybe even next week.”  With that he slowly turned and headed for the door with a saunter that bespoke confidence in his ability to maneuver his way out of any situation.  “Not only that,” he said with his hand on the doorknob, “you won’t work anywhere in California.  I’ll file my own report which will detail how you tried to seduce me, despite the fact that you are a lesbian.”

Debbie watched dumbfounded as he opened the door and left.  Only when the door clicked shut was she able to move.  She scuttled to her desk, picked up her keys, ran to the door and locked herself in.  She sank to the floor.  Wrapping her arms around her knees, she cried.  She cried for his arrogance, for his betrayal of what she thought was friendship, for his threat to expose her sexuality, for the violation of her body.  Minutes passed.

Eventually Debbie stood, walked the distance to her desk, gathered her students’ papers, stuffed them into her satchel, picked up her lunch bag, and walked out.   She headed to the parking lot, unlocked her car and mechanically threw her bag onto the passenger seat.  She put the key into the ignition and with a feeling of satisfaction as the engine of her deep red Camaro roared to life, put the car into gear, and drove out of the parking lot.

At first she drove without direction, heading first north, then east, then finally turning into a shopping center a few blocks from home.  She pulled into an empty slot, stopped the car, and turned off the engine. Debbie leaned back into the soft leather seat and allowed the torrent of tears to flow. Even though Jim had gone way past sexual harassment, she knew she could not report it.  She could not risk the exposure of her sexuality. To be employed at the school she had lied on the professional integrity contract.  If he followed through with his threats she would also be promptly terminated, as sexual “deviancy” was not tolerated.   Plus there was the fact of the lie.  It proved that she was dishonest.

Wishing now that she had listened to Smythe’s rumors, Debbie revved up her engine and stormed away, heading for the safety of home and the waiting arms of her life-partner.  She knew that Sam would demand that she quit at the end of the school year, if not sooner.  No problem there.  Might as well start looking for another job.

 

Nighttime Adventure

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It was not a dark and stormy night but rather a clear spring evening, the sun just going down, rays of golden light streaking across the sky. It was a night for being out, for great adventures, for having fun before the expected rains began to fall the next morning.

And so it was that Jon Michaels and Steve Johnson huddled against the back wall of the high school, obscured by shadows that had fallen as the sun slowly sank below the horizon.

Steve, the older of the two, had bulk and brawn on his side. He played football, basketball and baseball, the star of all three. The golden boy, the most popular kid in school, but not necessarily the brightest.

Jon, on the other hand was slim with narrow shoulders and hips. His head barely came up to Steve’s abs, but what he lacked in size he made up for in dexterity. His fingers flew over the keyboard, tapping out code faster than any other kid in school, even faster than his teacher.

For some unknown reason the two dissimilar boys were friends. Had been since Jon moved into the neighborhood during the summer before freshman year. Shortly after Jon climbed out of the family’s minivan, Steve showed up. Four years later they were still friends.

Tonight, however, would test the strength of that friendship and Jon knew it. Success depended upon him and he was so nervous that his teeth chattered.

Steve stabbed Jon in the chest, pushing him up against the wall. “Look, you can do it. You’ve practiced it a hundred times.”

“No, I can’t,” Jon whined. “My hands are shaking.” He held both hands out for inspection and then stuck them in the pockets of his baggy jeans.

“Just remember the steps,” Steve said. “It’s not rocket science.” He turned Jon around to face the downspout. “All you have to do is shimmy up, find the door and pick the lock. Piece of cake.”

Jon attempted to step away, but Steve had him trapped. “What if I can’t climb this thing? What if I get caught?”

“It’s Sunday night. There’s no one on campus. You won’t get caught.” He smiled encouragingly and slung his arm over Jon’s shoulders. “We’re buds, remember? Buds help each other out. I’ve been keeping you safe from the bullies, now it’s your turn to save me.”

Jon sighed. “What if there’s an alarm, hunh? I’ll be caught while you run away.”

Steve wrapped Jon’s hands on the spout. “Climb.” He held his interlaced fingers together, forming the first step of the climb. “Do it. Now.”

Jon put his right foot in Steve’s hands and using his own, pulled himself up to a standing position.

“Pretend it’s a rope. Use the clamps as leverage.”

Jon climbed, but it wasn’t easy. The bricks left his knuckles red and raw. His sneakers slipped over and over, causing him to slide down several inches each time he moved his hands up. The spout, despite being made of metal, seemed fragile. Jon was afraid that it would collapse, sending him flying to the ground where his body would break into a thousand pieces.

Because of his fear, it seemed to take forever, far longer than either boy had imagined.

The plan was simple. Scale the spout. Pick the rooftop lock. Go down to the first floor where English classes were held. Pick the lock to Grady’s classroom. Find the test on Grady’s desk and take just one copy. Then go out the front doors even though it would set off the alarm and run like heck. By the time the cops showed up, both boys would be sauntering down Main Street as if nothing had happened.

To prepare they had watched videos on YouTube about picking locks with nothing but a hairpin. Getting the pin was easy: Steve took one of his mom’s when she was watching television.  She’d never miss just one.

Unfortunately it took ten before they successfully picked the first lock, then another three before they could do it in five seconds or less. With his nimble fingers Jon was the fastest, which is why he was now scaling the spout.

Up and up Jon went, moving slower than a snail, but making progress. Steve whispered encouragement, not daring to shout for fear that a passing neighbor might hear noise and investigate.

It was scary enough waiting until all the groups of kids shooting hoops had left. Steve and Jon had joined in, pretending to be interested in the activity, all the while silently hoping that the others would soon give up and go home but it wasn’t until sunset that the playground was finally empty.

Jon reached the roof and slithered over the small wall at the top. He landed heavily on his left side, temporarily pinning his arm under his body. It hurt like heck. Added to that was the pain from the scrapes, the cramps in his legs and the persistent shaking of his entire body.

He lay there for what felt like hours but was probably only a minute or two. Once his breathing had stabilized, Jon stood, leaned over the wall and waved at Steve. But Steve was not there.

Jon looked all over for his friend, but couldn’t see him huddling against the fence or by the wall. He shrugged. “Might as well get to it,” he said.

Jon had never been on the roof so he had no idea what a maze of pipes and vents it was. He had to zig and zag to avoid tripping or banging against something. On top of that was the bank of solar panels that created deep shadows.

He was proud of the panels, though. It was nice to know that his school was embracing the new technology.

When he reached the door, Jon took out one of the hairpins which Steve had straightened using a pair of pliers so that it would easily slip into the keyhole. Jon bent down until he was eye-level and stuck the pin in the slot.

Jon maneuvered it as he had practiced, waiting nervously to hear the satisfying click, but nothing happened. He moved it up and down, side to side, over and over, taking way more time than any of the practice locks had taken. Finally, it happened. The click. Jon felt it and heard it. A sound so small that it there had been any noise, he wouldn’t have heard a thing. But it was there. It was real.

Jon turned the knob and pulled. The door opened and best of all, no alarm sounded.

It was dark inside, so Jon pulled a mini flashlight from his pocket, turned it on and flashed it around. There was nothing texcept a flight of narrow metal stairs, pretty much what the boys had expected.

He carefully went down the steps, wondering when he might trigger an alarm. But nothing happened. No screeches, no wails, no sirens.

Jon came to another door. He picked it, much quicker this time and pulled it open. That’s when it happened. The alarm went off so loud that it hurt his ears.

At first he froze, standing as still as possible, hoping the noise would end if there was no movement. But that didn’t work, so he ran down the remaining two flights of stairs.

At that point he had a decision to make: get into Grady’s classroom and steal the test or make a run for it out the front doors.

Steve would be angry if Jon didn’t get the test, so he headed to the room. As the alarm wailed, Jon calmly picked the lock. It only took one try. He ran in, found the test in the center of the desk and then took off down the hall and out the front doors.

As planned, he ran toward the trees next to the schoolyard fence and ducked behind the first one. He crouched down, making himself as small as possible. He hoped that his black clothes would make him invisible.

From his hiding place he saw a cop car pull up in front of the school, soon followed by another. Two cops got out of the first car, paired up and headed around the back of the building the remaining two went to the front. Jon watched their flashlights bounce as they walked. They scanned every window, most likely searching for a breech.

Jon had watched enough cop shows to predict what would happen next. He knew that once they found the unlocked doors, they’d search the neighborhood. So he took off running, hoping to find Steve huddled behind a tree or boulder.

He didn’t. He was alone with the stolen test tucked under his shirt.

When Jon came to the end of the trees, he stuffed his hands in his jeans’ pockets and strolled across the park as if nothing was wrong, even though the test seemed to burn his chest.

He came out on Second Street and turned left. He passed Melanie’s house which was lit up, a light on in every window. She was a senior like him, only super good at socializing. The type that belonged to every club on campus. Jon would have liked to be her friend, but he was invisible to her.

Next was Luke’s house. He was two years younger, but in his senior year. One of those super smart kids who skipped grades, graduating from middle school at twelve.

Jon strolled across Alder, waiting as a cop car zoomed by, lights flashing. He was surprised that the town had so many cops, then thought that maybe the chief had called for backup. That scared him so much that he almost peed his pants. He ducked behind a bush in front of a dark house and urinated against the wall.

Before stepping out, thankfully, he looked left and right. Another car went by, this time using its beacon to scan both sides of the street. Jon ducked down, making himself as small as possible, even though the smell of his urine gagged him.

He stayed like that until the streets were quiet. When he thought it was safe, Jon headed to Steve’s house.

When he threw a rock against Steve’s window, Steve opened it and stuck out his head. “Did you get it?” he asked.

“Yeah. But I almost got caught.”

“Hand it over.”

“Not until I get to look at it first. That was the deal,” Jon said, “and I’m sticking to it.”

Steve extended a hand and pulled Jon inside. “Let’s look together,” Steve said. “That way if anything happens to it, we’ll both have seen what’s on it.”

They sat on the bed. Jon took it out from under his shirt and smoothed it out. They bent over the paper, eager to find out what questions Grady was asking.

“Wait a minute,” Steve said as he shoved Jon in the chest. “You got the wrong test.”

“No,” Jon said. “I took the one from the middle of the desk, just like you said.”

Steve pointed at the top of the paper. “Read it.”

“First period. College Prep Junior English.” Jon fell back on the bed. “All that for nothing.”

 

Happy People

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Gwyneth loved living at Euclid Retirement Home. It was clean, comfortable and she was well cared for. The staff was kind and helpful. Her room wasn’t large, but she didn’t have to share it with anyone, unlike friends she knew who lived in other, not quite so nice places.

Her favorite thing about Euclid, though, was how pleasant everyone was. There were no grumpy people among the staff or the residents. Everyone walked around with smiles on their faces. Even those whose communication skills were limited smiled all the time. It was as if Gwyneth had fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in the land of happy.

Before she moved in, she was sad and lonely. Her children lived in other states, far away, and seldom came to see her. Her friends had moved on, either through death or a lack of independence, so she had no one to pal around with.

Her days were the same: get up, eat, eat some more, read, watch television, go to bed. Sometimes she went to the movies, but it wasn’t the same as when she would go with her husband or friends. Who do you discuss the movie with when no one was there?

Sometimes she’d treat herself to a meal out, but then she was a sad, lonely old woman sitting in a booth by herself. She’d bring a book and read in order to have something to do, but it wasn’t the same as sharing conversation over a good meal.

Her life was one big lonely day after another.

Until she heard about Euclid. A friend discovered it first and moved in when an opening appeared. Nancy loved the place and spoke highly of the wonderful staff. Nancy bragged about how much better she felt shortly after moving in, that she no longer looked forward to death, and in fact, enjoyed every single day.

She invited Gwyneth over for lunch one day so Gwyneth could see for herself how happy everyone was. And she was right. The residents sat around the large dining room table with smiles creasing their eyes. The staff sang and danced as they delivered the food, and sang some more as they cleaned up afterward.

The atmosphere was so low-keyed that Gwyneth was surprised that anything got done, but the residents were clean, their clothes were spotless, and her friend Nancy’s room was dust free. The furniture in the common room was a bit dilapidated, but still comfortable. The walls and floors were clean, and when Gwyneth had her tour of the facilities, she was pleased with how sparkling clean the kitchen and bathrooms were.

It was so perfect that Gwyneth inquired as to whether or not there was an opening. There wasn’t, of course, but there also was no one on the waiting list. Gwyneth completed the necessary paperwork and that was it. All she had to do was wait until someone either died or moved out.

Meanwhile she sorted through the stuff in her home. She went through closets, drawers and cabinets. She got rid of clothes she hadn’t worn in years, blankets that had sat in cabinets waiting for company to need them, and excess silverware that she wouldn’t need. Placemats and matching napkins…gone. Tablecloths, even fancy ones, stuffed into giveaway bags.

Even the piles of cookbooks disappeared. Anything she wouldn’t be able to take with her to Euclid left the house. She kept enough furniture to live with, enough pots and pans to cook basic meals, and the clothes she wore every day. Well, a few good dresses, but that was it.

Her son helped her find a realtor and arranged for an appraisal of the house. Once she knew fair market value, she put it up for sale, thinking that if all worked out, an opening at Euclid would magically appear when she had no place to live.

And it did. No sooner had a buyer made a reasonable offer for her house, not just meeting the sales price, but adding an additional $75,000 as enticement, than a room became available. Gwyneth would move in her new place just as the buyers were taking over her house.

Even though she wasn’t sure she’d like living in a home, Gwyneth’s mood improved after the first meal. She felt calmer, more relaxed and happier than she could ever remember feeling, even when her husband was alive and her kids still lived at home. That night she slept well, with no nightmares chasing her thoughts.

She enjoyed being with those residents that were able to converse. Every night they had pleasant discussions about the current political mess in Washington or movies or happenings in the news. After dinner they competed against each other to get the answers on Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Sometimes they played card games, which were rollicking bits of pure unadulterated fun.

Gwyneth knew she had made the right decision because every day was the same. Happy people, happy staff.

The only complaint that she had was that one resident, Lawrence, a grizzled old man of about eighty, seemed to have an unusual amount of company. Day in and day out people came to the door. Lawrence would take them to his room, and within a few minutes the visitors would be gone.

The staff seemed to like Lawrence more than the other residents, which was also bothersome. They also visited the man’s room quite frequently throughout the day, then would bustle into the kitchen. Amid the sounds of cooking would be giggles and loud guffaws.

One day the police walked through the door, dressed in what Gwyneth thought of as combat gear. That caused quite a stir. The residents were abuzz as the police searched the kitchen, opening every cabinet and drawer. They went through the massive china cabinet that stood in the dining room. They opened the envelopes that contained residents’ prescription medications and examined the contents of every bottle.

The cops went down the hall while the residents were sequestered in the front room. Another hour went by, while everyone speculated about the purpose of the visit, what they might be searching for.

Eventually the cops conferred with the manager who had been called to the home. Shortly after that, Lawrence was taken out in handcuffs and all the police officers left.

There was great speculation as to why he was arrested. Someone thought he was running a secret gambling operation on the computer in his room. Another guessed that he was a pedophile who was collecting images of children.

But no one would ever have guessed the real reason for his arrest if the manager hadn’t sat down with everyone and explained what had happened.

Lawrence had been buying and selling marijuana over the Internet. The police found over $20,000 worth of the drug in his room along with a stash of money, hidden between his mattress and box springs. He was being accused of selling drugs to the staff, to residents and to those non-residents who dropped by to visit him.

Gwyneth had wondered why anyone as popular as Lawrence would live in a home. After all, he seemed to have a goodly number of family and friends that came by, day after day. Well, now she knew that they weren’t family, but customers.

The next day there was an account of the arrest in the local paper. The police suspected Lawrence after seeing him approach a red sedan at the corner of Thornton and Fremont Boulevard, a sedan that was under surveillance for possible drug dealing. They followed Lawrence home and staked out the house for several days. After witnessing the number of strangers who came and went, they sought a court order.

And that’s how they caught him.

Everyone at the home was dismayed. Lawrence was a happy man and a good conversationalist. The staff members that were arrested were also good people. One was a mother of several small children and another was a cook who babysat her grandkids on weekends.

It was a shame. Lawrence’s arrest brought a great sadness to the home. No longer were the residents happy. Long gone were the pleasant conversations. No more did they compete over the game show for answers.

And the replacement staff wasn’t nearly as happy, either. Many of them were downright grouchy and seemed to resent working with a bunch of old folks. Slowly the house fell apart. Things weren’t as clean as before. There was grime in the bathroom and dust built up in the corners. The carpets were seldom vacuumed and the quality of the food disintegrated.

Gwyneth and Nancy organized the residents in the writing of a letter of protest, begging that Lawrence be allowed to return once he had served his time. They saw him not as a drug-dealer, but as the catalyst of all things good about Euclid.

Months later, when Lawrence was released from jail, he returned, but without a computer and without his car. He was restricted to the home and no longer did countless visitors walk through the doors.

But the mood slowly changed. It began with the staff. All of a sudden they were happy to be there. They changed sheets and diapers with smiles and laughs. There was giggling from the kitchen and guffaws as meals were served.

And then the residents began to smile again. And talk again. And compete over game show answers.

And Gwyneth was happy to be alive.

Bringing Christmas Home

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Stan Ellis stuffed the last of his purchases into his camper shell.  Smiling proudly, he strode to the driver’s door, unlocked it, and climbed behind the wheel.  The engine started immediately, and so after giving it an extra shot of gas, Stan threw the truck into reverse.

Careful not to hit anyone, he backed out of his spot.  He cranked up the volume on his favorite country station just in time to hear a Christmas tune by George Strait.  Smiling, Stan sang along, tapping his hands on the wheel to the rollicking beat.

On Main Street he merged into the slow-moving traffic.  It seemed as if the whole town was out shopping.  With just three days before Christmas, it came as no surprise.  Stan didn’t care how long it took to get through town, as he was full of the holiday spirit.  He was going to give his grandpa a special Christmas surprise.

It had been many years since they had decorated the house.  His grandmother loved to hang lights, put ornaments on the tree, and bake cookies that filled the house with the sweet smell of vanilla.  Christmas music soared throughout the house, his grandma’s golden voice blending with the singers on her favorite records.

Every meal was special, with at least one holiday favorite on the table: stuffing with raisins, carrots covered with a glaze, ham and pineapple, sweet potatoes drowning in a marshmallow topping.

After her death, Grandpa refused to celebrate.  No decorations were permitted, no music, no special foods.  It was hard on Stan, for he loved Christmas.  He missed the gaily-decorated packages, the tinsel on the tree, and the joyous feeling that permeated life day and night.  Among his friends, he was the only one who did not celebrate the holidays.  Sometimes one of them invited him over during winter break, and Stan would drop in for a brief visit, but each time his soul sank like a rock in water.

Determined to bring cheer into their lives, Stan had driven into town.  The ads shouted deep discounts on everything needed to brighten a home. He never knew there were so many kinds of lights, nor variety of ornaments.  He was surprised that garland came in the form of plastic candy canes, neon M & M’s and strings of imitation popcorn.  Looking for the sales, Stan chose the best items.

Home Depot had a few trees left, so Stan bought one of them as well.  It wasn’t as much fun as climbing the hills on the ranch and cutting down a live tree, but he made the most of the experience.  He remembered that Grandpa loved Noble firs, elegant with their evenly spaced branches, so that’s what he got.

Once home, Stan took the tree to the barn, got down a saw and cut off a good chunk of the trunk.  He removed the lowest branches to prevent them from dragging on the hard wood floor.  The trunk fit perfectly into the new, sturdy stand.  With pride he carried the tree into the house.

His grandmother placed the tree in the front window so that the lights could be seen shining on the darkest of nights.  To her, they were a beacon, calling her family home.  Wanting to recreate the last Christmas he recalled, Stan would have to move a lamp and table that sat in the designated spot.  He carried them upstairs, into an unused bedroom, and then returned to move the tree into place.

Keeping an eye on the time, for his grandfather was expected back before dinner, Stan carried in his bags of decorations.  He opened boxes of lights and strung them on the tree, around the windows, and over the mantle.  He hung ornaments, strategically placing them so as to balance color and design.  Garland went on last, a sparkling silver stole gracing the tree.

One box left.  Stan opened the lid and pulled out a figurine.  He gently unwrapped the Virgin Mary.  Next Joseph and the Baby Jesus, followed by Wise men, a shepherd, two sheep, a donkey, and a cow.  Lastly the crèche, a wooden structure with hay glued to the roof.

Stan staged the scene on the credenza in the front room.    He kept out Baby Jesus, just as his grandmother did when he was young.

Brushing off his hands, he admired his work.  Bursts of color filled the room, and the smell of pine tree tingled his nose.  The crèche filled his eyes with unexpected tears.  For some reason, Stan felt compelled to fall to his knees.

He gave thanks for his grandfather who loved him, his girlfriend, his teachers, and his life.  Stan crossed himself, as taught, then stood in time to hear his grandfather’s truck rumble up the road.

He went outside to help carry in the groceries that would be in the back.

“How did it go, Grandpa?  Were you the high bidder on the stallion?”

“Naw.  Josiah Turner beat me by fifty bucks.  I did get a pretty filly, though.  She’ll produce beautiful colts when mated with Silk.”

Both men grabbed handfuls of bags.  Walking side by side they strode up the wide steps and onto the porch.

“What the heck have you done, boy?”

Stan fought hard to hold back a grin.  “I thought it was time that we got back to celebrating Christmas.”

“Take it down!  Take it all down!” Grandpa dropped his bags and literally ran down the steps, across the yard, and into the barn.

Disappointed, Stan carried put the groceries away.  He turned on the radio, and after finding a station that played Christmas music, prepared dinner.  He peeled, sliced and fried potatoes, browned a couple of pork chops, opened a jar of applesauce and placed it on the table, all the while singing along to joyous tunes.  When everything was ready, Stan opened the back door and rang the bell, the call to dinner.  He stared at the barn, hoping to see his grandfather emerge.

When the door did not open, Stan sat at the table.  He said grace and then dished out his meal.  He ate alone, the only other voice that of the radio commentator.   When finished, he cleaned up.  Leftovers went into the fridge, pots and pans scrubbed, rinsed, and dried.

Heartbroken, Stan stepped into the front room to enjoy the bright lights by himself.  He walked over to the tree and fingered the needles.  He loved the firm, rubbery feel.

“Watcha doing, boy?”

Stan’s heart flew into this throat.  Turning, he saw his grandfather’s figure seated in a recliner on the far side of the room, half-hidden in darkness.  “I…I was just checking to see if it needed more water.”

“Have a seat.  We need to talk.”

Stan sat on the floor at his grandfather’s feet.  This is where he always sat when there was a story to be told.

“Do you know why I was angry?”

“I think so.  You miss Grandma.  So do I.  I miss her terribly.  But we have to live, Grandpa.  She wouldn’t like us to live in sadness.”

“You should have asked me first, Stan.  That’s why I was angry.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go shopping.”

“You’re right about that.  That’s not what made me angry, though.  It’s the shock of seeing all this.”  His hand swept around the room, indicating the tree, crèche, and lights.  “Your grandmother was a very religious person.  She loved Christmas, as it made her feel close to God.  She worked hard to bring His love into our lives.  Nightingale was my Christmas gift, the best one I ever got.  There is no way that Christmas will ever be the same without her.”

“I know that, but I miss the lights.  Can’t we enjoy Christmas like everyone else does?”  Stan’s tear-filled eyes reflected the disappointment that was dragging him down.

“I don’t know, boy.  I just don’t know.  Looking at all this makes me miss her all the more.  Can you understand that?”

Stan’s chin hit his chest and sobs shook his shoulders.  His large, calloused hands covered his face.  “I’m sorry, Grandpa.  I’ll take it all down,” he said as he wiped the tears away with the tail of his gray flannel shirt.

“No. Let it be,” his grandpa said as he strode into the kitchen.

Stan moved into the newly vacated chair.  He looked at the tree with its lights, ornaments, and garland.  Nothing seemed as beautiful as it had earlier.  In fact, it all seemed garish, even the cheap wood crèche with its plaster figurines. What was I thinking?

While Christmas tunes continued to float through the house, they didn’t seem so gay anymore.  The words spoke of gifts, Santa, snowmen, and kissing under the mistletoe.  There was little mention of the Christ child or of God’s love for His people.  Christ is missing.  That’s what’s wrong.  That’s why Grandpa’s upset.

Stan stood, walked over to the tree, and pulled the plug.  He turned off the stereo.  An eerie stillness came over the house.  I’ll take it down in the morning, Stan told himself as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Sleep did not come easy.  Most of the night Stan’s eyes stared at the darkened ceiling.  Memories of his grandmother came unbidden. Even the smiling faces of his parents, dead for many years now, floated in a mist-like cloud above his bed.

When dawn turned the sky a dusty gray, Stan arose and dressed. He walked to the head of the stairs and stopped.  What the heck?  Stan’s eyes opened dinner-plate wide, for before him was an amazing sight.

Teddy bears covered every flat surface.  Tinsel dangled from ropes of garland that stretched from one side of the room to the other.  A toddler-sized Santa and sleigh sat near the door, and a Rudolph with blinking nose stood guard.  Stan’s crèche was gone, and in its place sat a hand-carved Nativity scene, created by his grandfather, long ago, as a gift for his grandmother.  On one wall hung a tree-filled picture frame that his grandmother had filled with old jewelry that she had gathered from relatives.

Dazed, Stan slowly went down the stairs.  His store-bought ornaments were gone.  In their place hung homemade ones.  He fingered lace snowflakes, felt stockings, cloth-covered Styrofoam balls, reindeer made from clothespins.  Everything was beautiful.  Everything was just as he remembered.

Even though he knew his grandfather was in the room, Stan did not turn to face him, for embarrassing tears poured down his face.  “It’s wonderful, Grandpa.  Why did you do this?”

“To make you happy, boy.  While I ate my dinner last night, all I thought of was that unhappy face of yours.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.  This means a lot to me,” Stan said as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Next time you get an idea to surprise me, will you talk to me first?”

“Yes.  I promise,” he said.  Stan stood behind his grandfather and draped his right arm over his shoulders.

“I used to love Christmas, too,” his grandfather said.  “Nightingale filled the days with so much love that her happiness filled me as well.  When she died, I thought I would never feel that way again.  I swore that no Christmas decorations would ever come in this house again, to protect and honor her memory.  It wasn’t fair to you, Stan.”

Stan patted the muscle-bound shoulders of his grandfather.

“When I saw the tree, my heart broke into a thousand pieces.  The only thought that came to mind was to run away and hide.  Then I snuck inside while you ate.  Looking at the tree reminded me of Nightingale.  After you went to bed I did some thinking.  That’s when it came to me.  I’ve been wrong all these years.   I wasn’t honoring your grandmother’s memory at all.  She would have wanted us to continue her traditions.  So I went out to the barn and got out her things.  It’s funny, but as I unpacked the old decorations, I felt as if Nightingale was helping me.  I swear I even heard her singing.”

Stan planted a kiss on his grandfather’s rough cheek.  “That’s the way I felt.  It was as if Grandma was with me at the store, helping me decide what to buy.  All I wanted was to bring Christmas back into the house.  I’ve missed it, Grandpa.”

“So have I, boy.  So have I.”

Stan sat in the chair that used to be his grandmother’s and watched, with his grandfather, as the rising sun filled the sky with a golden color.  There was no more need for words.

 

 

Dinner Talk

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By the time Stan Ellis was finished mucking out the stalls, his seventeen-year-old body was exhausted. After a full day at school followed by band practice, it was a lot of work. He made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, pulled out his homework, and began studying for a Physics test the next day.

Just as he finished reviewing the final chapter, Grandpa Ellis, a seventy-year old rancher, came in the kitchen. He still smelled of the outside, despite the shower he had obviously just taken.

“We’re having spaghetti tonight. Is that okay?” he asked as he pulled a pot and lid out of the cabinet.

“Sounds great,” Stan said. “Can we have a salad too?”

“If you make it.”

Stan opened the refrigerator and pulled out lettuce, radishes, and cheese. He got a tomato off the counter and bacon bits from the pantry. “So, Grandpa, are you going to give me the money or not?”

“Can you explain it to me again?”  Grandpa dumped a handful of spaghetti noodles into a pan of boiling water, and then wiped his hands on his jeans.

“I’ve got to turn the money in tomorrow,” said Stan, “or I can’t go to Disneyland.”

“Why’re you going there?”

“I told you three months ago,” Stan said as he finished assembling the salad and flopped into a hand-hewn kitchen chair. “I’ve asked over and over, but you haven’t given me a dime.”

Grandpa Ellis stirred the noodles with a wooden spoon. “Well. Let’s see. What extra jobs have you done around the ranch to earn the money?”

Stan sighed and ran his hands over his lanky brown hair. “I dug the weeds out of the pony pens and I trimmed the bushes along the drive.”

“That’s your job,” Grandpa said.

“According to that line of reasoning, then anything I do around here is my job,” Stan said. “Look, Grandpa, I really want to go. I’ve got to pay the full amount tomorrow or I’m out.”

Grandpa slipped a loaf of French bread out of its wrapper and laid it on the cutting board. He picked up a knife and sliced off four hefty pieces. “Explain again the reason behind the trip.”

“The band’s marching in the Main Street Parade and performing on the stage in Tomorrowland.” Stan leaned his chin on his hands and looked at his grandfather with sparkling eyes. “I want to go.”

After popping open a jar of sauce and pouring it into a pan, his grandfather sat down.  “How much are we talking about?”

“We’re flying, so that’s about $300. No hotel costs because we’re going to sleep in a gym at a local school. They’re feeding us breakfast and dinner. Admission to the park is about $100. The only other cost is for my lunch.”

“So about $500?”

Stan shrugged. “Yeah.”

“I don’t have that kind of money.” Grandpa walked over to the stove, poured a little oil into the water with the noodles and stirred the sauce.

“You sold a foal last week to Mr. Newton for over a thousand dollars.”

“I paid bills with that money.  We still owe Smith’s Hay and Feed over two thousand and Bill’s been asking for his money since he fixed the truck last week.”

“But, Grandpa, everyone else is going.  It’ll look funny if I don’t go,” Stan whined as he flopped his head down on his crossed arms.

“Set the table.  We’ll be eating in about five minutes.”

Stan stood, shuffled to the cabinet, and with seemingly superhuman effort got down two plates and glasses.  With an audible sigh, Stan set them on the placemats.

“Quit making a big show.”  Grandpa Ellis strained off the water from the noodles and then dropped in a slice of butter.  He tossed the noodles, poured in the sauce, and carried the pan over to the table.  “Sit down and let’s talk.”

Stan scooped a mound of spaghetti onto his plate and sprinkled on a heavy layer of Parmesan cheese.  “It’s during Spring Break so I won’t miss any school. You filled out the permission form and I turned it in.  Mr. Hayfield’s already paid for my plane ticket.  I can’t back out now.”

“I can’t recall filling out any form.”

“Well, you did.”

“What was I doing when you handed it to me?”

“Washing dishes.  You told me to put the form on the table, so I did.  When you finished, you filled it out and handed it to me.”

“You tricked me or I’d never have signed.  You can’t go, Stan.  I’m sorry.”

Without finishing his meal, Stan got up from the table and ran to his room.  The slamming of the door shook the whole house.

After wiping off his mouth Grandpa cleaned up the kitchen and then went into the front room.  He unlocked the small safe in his desk and pulled out a wad of money.  Slowly he counted the bills.  When finished, he locked the safe, closed the door and went upstairs.

“Can I come in?” he said after knocking on his grandson’s door.

“Sure.”

Grandpa extended his right hand. “Here’s the money.”

“Really?”  Stan’s face glowed with surprise.

“Yeah.  I was hoping that you’d changed your mind and didn’t want to go all the way to California.  Just in case, though, I put the money aside.  I’m going to sell Misty to Steve Carlson this weekend.  I’ll use that money to pay off bills.”

“Thanks, Grandpa! You’re the best!”  Stan, even though he was a little too old for hugs, jumped up off his bed and wrapped his arms around his grandfather.

Dapper Doesn’t Do

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Wolfgang Von Schmidt, thinking himself the cat’s meow, combs out his wiry whiskers and brushes his bright, white teeth.  Taking his favorite top hat from his closet shelf, he places it between his lupine-like ears, taps the brim with one hand, and smiles.  Pulling on the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, he examines himself in his full-length mirror, thinking himself quite dapper.

He saunters through his penthouse apartment with practiced grace.  He picks up a mahogany cane, taps his right dress shoe three times and leaves.  While he waits for the elevator, Wolfgang hums a happy tune, a seductive tune, a winsome tune.

He walks jauntily through the front doors, waving good-bye to the doorman.

“Out for the evening, sir?’

“Of course,” he replies with a wink and a grin.  “If I’m lucky, I’ll return with a beautiful woman on my arm.”

“Good hunting,” The doorman bows goodbye.

Wolfgang strolls over to a sleek black limo. Wolfgang taps the brim of his hat at the driver before he slithers inside, smiling a wolfish grin.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.

“The usual.”

“Your woman’s waiting?”

“Of course.”

They head to the street of lights running through downtown Las Vegas.

Wolfgang knows that Rosa, his current girlfriend, is waiting at Jayto’s, the hottest nightclub in town.  He told her to be there no later than ten, knowing that he’d intentionally arrive thirty minutes later because he loves the grand entrance, smirking as all heads turn and stare while he struts his sexy body across the floor.  Wolf laughs as he imagines the men glowering while women squirm, unable to resist his animal attraction.

Wolf had told Rosa to order champagne and an appetizer to tide her over. But what Wolf had not counted on was that Rosa had little patience for sitting alone, a spectacle, a laughingstock of epic proportions.

Before they started dating, Rosa warned him, “I know your reputation. You should know that I have a rule: You have three chances to impress me and if you don’t meet my expectations, I’ll dump you.”

“No worries, my dear,” he said with a tip of his hat. “I”ll never disappoint you.”

“You’d better not,” she said as she inhaled her cigarette. “I’m not kidding.”

Wolf intentionally made her wait two previous times just to test her resolve, and now he’s on his third. But he knows that Rose is so entranced by his charm, so enthralled by his wolfish good looks, that she’d never walk away.

Tonight, wanting to control every detail, no matter how small, he even went so far as to tell her what to wear, demanding her sexiest red dress, her matching stiletto heels and her mink stole.

What Wolf hadn’t counted on was that sitting has made Rosa angry and the champagne she guzzled in annoyance has given her a massive headache. When he finally arrives with an exaggerated flourish, she watched him tip his hat to the left and right, stopping to whisper in every woman’s ear who smiled his way.

Jealous at the attention that she felt should have been focused on her, her temper rises to a boil.  By the time he arrives at the table, steam is pouring from her ears and her cheeks are crimson with rage.

“Hello, my lovely,” Wolf says as he runs his ungloved hand down her arm and leans down for a kiss.

Rosa shrugs off his clammy paw.  “So, what’s your excuse this time?”

“These big teeth take a long time to brush.” He flashes his sexiest smile and slithers into his chair.

“And I suppose it takes an hour to comb that hair of yours.”

“I have to look my best,” he says.  “My huge eyes are only for you, you know.” He leans forward and bats his eyelids in suggestion of thrills to come.

She snickers.  “I’m not a fairy tale woman that falls for your wily ways.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he pleads. “Let me hold you in my arms and kiss your soft cheek.  I’m your man, remember?  The one who fills your every need.”

“Not tonight, you jerk.” Rosa picks up her purse, slinging her stole over her pale shoulders, stands. “You can’t expect forgiveness this time. It’s not going to happen.”

“Sit down,” he says while looking around the club to see how much attention she’s garnering.

Wolf’s appalled when he sees people staring with open mouths.  He’s fully aware that his reputation, his suaveness are the talk of the town. His haunting darkness speaks of a wild and uninhibited energy.

He reaches for Rosa’s arm. “Hey, I’ve got a fabulous evening planned.”

“You blew it,” she says as she pulls away. “I’m not the kind of girl who’ll take being embarrassed lying down.”

Wolf wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into his lap. “Kiss me. I promise it will be worth it.” He pulls her close, puckering his lips, expecting her to melt into his arms.

When Rosa realizes the power of the drama she’s creating, she says in a loud voice, “Get your slimy hands off me.”

“Stay, my lovely maiden,” Wolf pleads.  “Enjoy a nice dinner.  Talk awhile.  I promise to be charming,” he says as he blinks his large brown eyes.

“Look, Wolfgang,” Rosa says, “you love yourself too much and live only to satisfy your own ego.  Well, I won’t stand for it.  I have my needs, you know, and you don’t fit in the picture.”  Rosa stomps out, her gown rustling like the leaves on a forest tree.  Every eye follows her, wide open, for not every day does a gorgeous woman leave her date behind in a flutter of napkins and a chorus of muffled coughs.

As she saunters away, Wolf shrugs and signals the waiter. “Bring me a highball. And a bowl of nuts.”

By the time Rosa exits, he’s simmering. No woman has ever walked out on him. He is the one who dumps them after he tires of their winsome ways.  But this relationship was different and tonight, of all nights, the anniversary of his move to the city, was to be a celebration of a beginning of a new chapter in his life.

Since leaving his home deep in the forest, Wolfgang has never looked back on the family he left behind, the rustic cabin hidden in a waterfall-created cove, his “litter-mates,” as he teasingly calls his siblings, nor even his mother, whom he detests for being primitive in her ways. He loves city life; the adventure of the chase, the game-playing and risk-taking and especially the ladies.  Oh, how he loves the women!

Especially Rosa, who was supposed to be an important part of his future plans.

Because she is the most spectacular woman he’s ever been with, he intended to seal the deal with a visit to his penthouse suite and an aperitif of wolfish delight.

After Rose exits without so much as a glance back, Wolf picks up his napkin and casually drops it on the table as if these things happened every day.  No big deal.

Pushing back his shoulders he rises with elegance.  He winds his way through the tables, ignoring the smirks and guffaws.  He salutes the doorman with a tap to his brim.  Not wanting to wait for his limo, Wolf hails a cab, climbs inside, and gives directions.

He sulks home, dragging his not-to-be fairy-tale tail behind him.  For the first time in his life, a girl has bested him. What is he to do for desert?