At Least They're Committed

Wringing her hands, chin down in a ghastly smile, eyes looking sinisterly skyward, Tripping Raul chuckles.

He’s standing before her, all buff and proud and curly blonde and shit, and she doesn’t register his presence.

“Ahem.”

Scheming, she’s sowing seeds, some of which she hopes bear fruit in a year, others in two years. She looks forward to the day — many, many months from now if ever — when she pauses, looks around her and thinks, “Huh, I’m actually lonely.” At that time, she will assess her options.

“I’m fascinated by all this?” he waves his hand at her and says lightly.

It’s all so clear now. Looking backward, she has found the impetus to move ahead.

“Why don’t you admit you’re going to use them again?” he casts a look over his shoulder, tilting his head, as if to the past. “Like you always have.”

Her head turns to the side as if on a rotor, expression unchanging. Rolled up eyes and lips.

“That would be counterproductive,” she hisses.

He stuffs a handful of the feathers into his pockets, squelching a laugh. “Well, OK then. It’s that time, eh? Thy will be done?”

It was ever-so-nice of him to lend me his wings a week ago, and as I look back to him I tilt my head to say so. But women . . . and men . . . are not B roll. So, ho, ho, here we go.

“Cathy,” he says.

I shake my head. He never calls me that.

“What are you doing?”

“I, uh, don’t know,” I say. “I have no idea.”