Unfocused Issues

Past Imperfect – #570

It was at this precise moment that Clara realized her lover had been cheating on her. It was the same moment when Charles first noticed that his lover sported an unnatural pallor that spoke of midnight resurrections and a possible guest appearance in an Anne Rice novel. One would think these two negatives would automatically cancel the other and this relationship spat was therefore a draw, but Clara simply could not let things go, her being from The Bronx and all.

Clara: “So, you’ve been shtupping the milkmaid, have you?”

Charles: “What on earth gave you that idea?”

Clara: “You smell like cheese! I don’t smell like cheese. I go to a clinic to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Charles: “Okay, first of all, what the hell kind of clinic is that? You know what, never mind. We only have so much time on this earth. Second, just like I’ve told you a million times, I was raised on a dairy farm and that smell never goes away. I will reek of bovine lactation until the day they shove me in a casket. Speaking of, have you been in one of those before?”

Clara: “Don’t make this about me. You’re the one looking for cheese in all the wrong places.”

Charles: “You’ve already made it all about you. I’m just pinch-hitting. And you’re avoiding my question and trying to spin the story. Are you a Republican as well?”

Clara: “How dare you accuse me of being Undead!”

Charles: “While I can appreciate the similarities between the two, these are actually separate questions. Let me focus on the first, and I’ll try to be more specific. Do you walk the night and suck the lifeblood out of otherwise innocent people on their way home from the Piggly Wiggly supermarket?”

Clara: “Maybe. I’m not signing anything.”

Charles: “I knew it! Ever since that night I got frostbite when we cuddled and I nearly lost a toe.”

Clara, now desperate, because the romance options are limited on social media when you don’t have a pulse: “But all the therapists say that if you want a healthy relationship, the partners should have outside interests so that their time together is more meaningful. I just have a little hobby that may or may not involve the taking of lives. Surely we can get past this. If Melania can stay married to Donald Trump despite his conquest of extramarital cheeses, there’s hope for us all.”

Charles: “That last bit is not really a good selling point. Still, I have enjoyed our time together, despite the oddity of me being able to see my breath when I’m around you. But I do have one final question.”

Clara: “Ask away, my beloved. I promise to answer in a way that sounds truthful but still protects my lies in a court of law.”

Charles: “Will we be able to procreate, considering that one of us is undead?”

Clara: “Of course. That’s how Ivana Trump was able to give birth to Donald Trump Junior.”

 

8 replies »

  1. Ba-da-bing!
    Okay, fess up: what came first? Did you think up the snazzy end and create the story to work toward it, or did the story naturally evolve toward its perfect conclusion?
    Answer carefully. Your inclusion in the blogger hall of fame depends upon it.

    Liked by 1 person

    • This one was a natural progression. The only thing I had in mind when I opened up a blank doc was the first line, and I didn’t know were I was going until I got there. Sometimes The Muse answers my call. Other times she sends me directly to voice mail…

      Liked by 1 person

  2. The look Ms. Bow is giving “Charles” is one perfected and handed down, over decades, by wives and significant others to spouses and partners seeking illicit cheese. It is designed to freeze the most repentant in their tracks (with loss of toes or not), and makes the miscreant (because usually the most repentant have something to be sorry ABOUT or why be repentant? ) squirm. Also the Nehru jacket thingie sported by Charles might have had too much starch in the collar, giving rise to the cheese remark and the squirming. But he’ll never tell. What goes on in the barn, stays in the barn.

    Liked by 1 person

    • At the risk of accidentally injecting an Oedipal aspect in those, which is certainly not my intention, I remember that look from my own mother. She would flash that at me during one of the rare moments when I would toss aside my usually angelic behavior and engage in something extraordinarily insipid. Punishment would then be nigh…

      Like

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