2019-09-05 - Just Desserts

Why?
He looked at the flyer in his hand and thought that single word again. He hadn't seen her in weeks, not for a long time. She was there when he spoke with the librarian, holding his hand pissed her off the most. And she was there, holding her hands to her hips the way she had when she was living, on the boardwalk when the tattooist had waited outside his place for him to come out and coaxed him to give her another chance.

She was even there after he did just that, and was leaving the library basement after breaking that poor girl's heart, trying to get him to turn around. Turn around, go back and talk to her more. But he couldn't. By then, he was with someone else.

Her ideas weren't always the best.
Even now that she's dead.

Putting the flyer down, on the kitchen counter, Everett exhaled sharply, waiting for the blush to recede. And it didn't. After a long minute, he reached over to the precariously perched phone and replied the video once more trying to ignore the eyes on him. Hands forward. Hip thurst. Drop to the ground. Roll over, thrust into the air.

From the crab walk position, he tried for the millionth time to stand. Got halfway up, felt his thighs burn, scream in protest. He felt weak. He never feels weak. And he came crashing to the floor.

Again.

"ARGH!", the brute curled his right hand into a club and thumped the floor twice whose fault it was. Further down the kitchen counter, silently pearls of laughter didn't ring. Below, customers looked to the heavens as light fixtures sway and plaster dust snowed down.

"Shut up. Shut up, shut up," he said to his specter, while he rolled over and on to his feet again. "Or tell me why you're making me do this."

She shrugged a reflective red jacket shoulder, smiling smugly. And Everett thought unkind things then turned his dark green eyes back to his phone. Time to replay the video one more time, his eyes skimming the Amateur Night flyer from the Platinum Cabaret. Sighing like the giant had the world on his shoulders he ran the routine once more.

And plaster shook.

Later that night, when he arrived home, Everett reached inside the plastic bag and tossed it on the floor. To the kitchen counter he turned the object in his hand over. Using his thumbnail the thug bent the six wire pieces holding the picture frame back in place.
Reaching inside, he withdrew the single dollar tip he earned that night from shaking what little he'd been given, then lifted the frame and peeked underneath. Backwards, Everett turned it over, centered the crumbled bill and then dropped the back on it, checked it was straight (enough) before bending back the wire pieces.
He looked at his trophy, carrying it to the wall beside the bathroom and hung it, crooked. Looked at it for a moment, crossed tree trunk arms over his chest and canted his head until it looked straight. Breaking away, the ape went to the fridge with the constant hum, opened it and took out a beer. It fuzzed and frothy head spilt on the floor, before he had a chance to look at it. Admire his award.

She came out of where ever she came from, he never knew and leaned her arm up on his shoulder, cocking her head to also gander at the prize, her red and blue dyed ponytails swaying with her head movements.
He took a sip of his beer. He felt like celebrating.

She patted his arm reassuringly with her other hand.