Sunday, September 18, 2011

Fried, America, Sunken, Beauty-Queen

The house was looking less white, he thought. One more thing to do, and yet no more time to do it in. Something was going to have to give. Shorter breaths, maybe? The lawn was looking a lot less green, too. Probably best to stop taking long looks before walking in the front door could be removed from that list.
"Before you take off those shoes take out the garbage," came from an area approximating to the kitchen. The bag was sitting on top of a low lamp table, minus the lamp. When he picked it up grim saturated camping magazines pitifully demarcated between the trash and table.
"No problem Betty Jean, my beauty queen." As he freed his other hand of his keys to open the door the droning of a television was interrupted by shuffling of slippered feet. " Caleb, sweetie, thank you." Betty Jean's puckered lips rammed Caleb's turning jaw. "Come back in here quick like. Warm food and warm thighs are waiting for ya."
The living room furniture was sunken under the weight of memories. The house had long been absent of the hiss of air escaping the weight of eager television viewers. The two cuddled with something hot and fried on their laps. On the screen the President was speaking. "These fallen brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, have given the ultimate sacrifice for America, and it will not be in vain."
Not waiting to void her mouth of food, Betty Jean asked, "How was your day?"
Lifting the television's remote control, "Not bad, not bad at all."


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