Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
She headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth, frustrated that everything was still a blur. I’d only had one glass of wine. So weird. Once she was finished freshening up, she exited her bedroom and went across the hall to check on Aunt Huni. She knocked, but there was no answer. It was a few minutes past eight. Then, she heard it. Humming from downstairs, soft music playing, and the unmistakable smell of frying bacon.
She made her way down the steps and into the kitchen to find Aunt Huni at the stove flipping pancakes. Strips of glistening, crispy bacon sat on a paper plate, the grease draining on a paper towel. The woman was bouncing a bit, dancing to the rhythm of ‘I Want Your Love,’ by Chic.
“Sleep well?” she asked in a chipper voice as she set the spatula down, and reached for the pot of coffee.
“Yeah, I think so.” Poet scratched her head and made her way over to the woman. She kissed her cheek. “How about you, Auntie?” She opened one of the upper cabinets.
“Good!”
“Hey, did uh, did you see me when I got home? I must’ve been dog tired because my memory is kinda blank.” She poured herself a glass of orange juice and took her multivitamin.
“No.” The older woman shook her head. “I fell asleep. I heard you come in, though, ’round eleven. Sit down and eat.”
Aunt Huni poured them both cups of coffee, and added extra cream. For a split second, she wondered if Huni’s memory was playing tricks on her again. On the other hand, it was plausible that Poet was just tired beyond belief. There was no doubt about it; she’d been exhausted the entire week. Shrugging it off, she drank her coffee. Moments later, Aunt Huni was sitting across from her. They settled into a nice conversation about going to see a movie soon, when suddenly there was a loud banging at the door.
“Ms. Constantine! MS. CONSTANTINE!” Melba yelled, then banged on the door once again. “I need you to cut your grass! It’s high as a mountain!” Melba went on and on, ranting a long list of things that were either untrue, or none of her business. All of the duties and chores that she wished for her to tend to. There was no HOA or clubhouse. Hell, it was barely a neighborhood, with the way the houses were stretched for sometimes miles apart. Expanses of rough road, sprawling fields and the air God gave them to breathe. Melba kept on ringing the bell, and banging.
“I know you’re in there, Posey!” Posey? My name ain’t no damn Posey. “I know because your truck is out here! I’m trying to settle this without callin’ the police, but you leave me no choice!”
Poet sighed, got up and opened the back door. She then grabbed a can of cat food from a cupboard, as well as the can opener. In ten seconds flat, little fury heads began to pop up like popcorn. As soon as they heard that opener, all bets were off. The stray cats and dogs, and occasional raccoons that showed up knew that sometimes she’d give out a meal when the mood struck her. One time she even nursed some orphan kittens before takin’ them to the closest Vet to be checked out, then adopted.
Placing food in little paper bowls, she dispersed them out back, then walked through the living room to the front door, and rang the little chime while Melba was walking around her property like some bucktoothed peeping Tom. Poet could hear the breaking of twigs and snapping of dry grass beneath the frumpy woman’s gait.
Very quietly, Poet unlocked the front door and cracked it, then pulled the peel back on three different cans of cat food. All of them were large, could feed five to six cats per container, and came in assorted flavors. The first serving in the back of the house was the invitation, an appetizer. The second was the main course. Like before, little heads popped up from the grass, and came runnin’. Poet placed the food down, then quietly closed the door and locked it back before the ambush. Before she could even look out of the window to watch the show, she heard…
“OHHHH!!!! JESUS!!! GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!!! I HATE YOU! I HATE CATS!!! AHHHHHH!!!!” the woman crowed, screaming, wailing and flailing. Melba had gotten too close again, and set off the little catnip booby trap that Poet had set.
Poet craned her neck and caught the scene. The woman raced off, but this time fell face first in the field. With catnip all over her feet, ankles and knees, the cats nipped, licked and crawled all over her. Melba’s screams were guttural and urgent—a death rasp. A call to Glory. Poet stood at the window watching, a big shit-eating grin on her face. By the time Melba got back on her feet, she was limping, dragging her leg. The cats kept at her, but some had left after getting their fill.