It would be nice to have a dog again. Would be a lot of work to train. I could get a rescue and then wouldn’t have to deal with the puppy stuff and would save a dog at the same time. Hmm.
“See, here we are again. Told ya.” Noah held the leash tight as Trudy pulled toward Celia's driveway.
“Have fun at your celebration.”
“Bye-bye. And thank you for catching her.” They disappeared from Celia’s sight.
She thought of her last dog. A salt-and-pepper schnauzer named Heidi. For a small dog, she had a ferocious appetite. Much to Celia’s dismay, Heidi’s favorite treat was a bar of soap. Heidi would sneak into Celia’s bathroom, jump into the bathtub, and grab the soap from its dish. Without fail, after each soapy snack, she would proceed to vomit on a carpet somewhere in the house. Never would her upset stomach reject the soap on the tile floor—Heidi always got sick on something plush. When Celia cleaned the mess, the regurgitated soap would foam, lather, and stink. Celia began to keep the soap too high for Heidi to reach. In the end, a new bar of patchouli-scented soap took Heidi to the great beyond. She was fourteen years old. Her little body couldn’t take the upset. Celia felt sad as she remembered her sweet Heidi. She never bought patchouli soap again.
She picked up the real estate section and read descriptions of ocean-front homes for sale in nearby communities. I have an ocean view. She could see a tiny square of the ocean from her bedroom window. This patch of water was Celia’s definition of an ocean view.
Celia popped a cherry into her mouth. She ate the fruit and then sucked the pit. She glanced around to be sure no one was watching and then spit the pit across the narrow driveway. Why can’t I reach that strip of grass? She ate another cherry and spit the second pit. With cherry after cherry, she attempted to get the pit across the driveway. Not one pit made it to the grass. Finally, she reached the strip of grass. “Yes! I did it!” She pulled her fist to her side.
Celia heard the church bells ring and then cleaned up the spit pits.
Emma
Celia pulled the comforter up to her neck and nestled into her bed. She opened one eye and peeked at the clock. Shit. Four minutes to go. She raised the comforter up to her nose and closed her eyes.
Four minutes later, the radio blasted her awake. With both hands, she pulled the pillow next to her and covered her head in a feeble attempt to muffle the noise. “No!” She squeezed the pillow tighter over her ears.
From beneath the comforter, she slid her hand out and powerfully smashed the snooze button. The clock flew off the side table. The music blared as it became wedged between the mattress and nightstand. “SHIT!” So much for that extra ten minutes of sleep.
Sluggishly she dragged herself from her warm bed and knelt on the carpet. She wiggled the clock back and forth as she tried to dislodge it from the tight space. Finally, she yanked it free and slammed the stop button. Guess it’s senseless to hit the snooze button again. I’m wide awake now. She was irritated.
A pounding headache joined her morning routine. I’ll never again drink that much wine on a week night. She removed a small bottle of aspirin from the bathroom medicine cabinet and walked into the kitchen. She poured herself a large glass of orange juice, popped two pills in her mouth, and took a big gulp.
Celia stood against the counter, drank the last sip of juice, and pushed the brew button to start her coffee. Instantly, the wonderful smell filled the room. She inhaled slowly.
The rescue of the alarm clock turned what should have been a ten-minute snooze into twelve minutes of frustration. Celia was now late. She turned on the shower, dropped her nightgown to the bathroom floor, and rubbed her eyes. After the two-minute wait period, the length of time it took for the water to heat up, she stuck her hand through the shower curtain and checked the temperature. Finally. Every day, the water took at least two minutes to heat up, and every day, Celia expected it would be faster.
She showered and then savored the warmth from the hot water that poured down her body. She turned the shower off and reached for a towel. Although the shower was off, she still heard water dripping—it came from the kitchen.
With the towel wrapped around her soaked body and her feet still drenched, she raced into the kitchen. Hot coffee coated the countertop and dripped down the cabinets to form a small puddle on the floor.
“Fuck!” She gazed at the empty space where the coffee pot should have been placed. “You idiot! How did you do this?” She looked at the coffee pot in the dish strainer.
Celia grabbed a cup and placed it under the lip of the counter. With her bare hands, she pushed the residual pool over the edge and filled the cup halfway. She gulped it down and shuddered. Ugh! This second mishap of the morning further delayed her. There wasn’t time to brew a second pot. She clutched a fistful of paper towels and haphazardly wiped the cabinet doors and the floor.
“How was your weekend?” Emma walked into Celia’s office and plopped down in the chair across from her desk. “Why’s your hair curly?”
“Didn’t have time to dry it.” Celia raised her hand to her head and twisted a cluster of curls.
“It looks good. You should wear it that way. Look at MY curls.” She shook her head back and forth. Emma’s jet-black curls danced around her face.
“My weekend was stupid.”
“Why was your weekend stupid? No, let me rephrase that. What constitutes stupid?”
“I don’t know where to begin. I went for drinks with Ramona and her brother.” What was the booper’s name? Why can’t I remember? Think. It’s not Booper Boy. I can’t remember. “A total disaster. Why don’t you tell me about your weekend instead?”
“Nah. I’d rather hear about Ramona and her brother. Go on.” Emma put her elbows on the desk and placed her hands under her chin. “Start chirping.” She lowered her hands and wiggled her fingers toward her face. “I’m all ears.”
Celia began to recount the evening with Ramona and her brother. Emma’s cell phone rang and interrupted her a second after she began to describe the booping fix up.
“Hello?” She glanced at Celia and crossed her eyes. “Hello? Hello? Hello?” Emma was visibly annoyed.
Celia picked up a pen and doodled on a pink sticky pad. A. B. C. D. I think it began with R. Was it R? Ralph? Richard? Roy? What WAS it? R. R. R. Walter. That’s it! Walter! So, it ends in R. Same thing. Glad I remembered.
Emma put the phone down on the edge of Celia’s desk. “Sorry. Go on. Tell me about the brother.”
Celia began to speak. Again, Emma’s phone rang.
Emma glanced down at the phone and pressed the Decline button.
The phone rang a third time, and Emma once more pressed Decline. “I’m sorry. I want to hear your story.”
“Who the hell is that?” Celia nodded her head toward the phone.
“Don’t ask.” Emma shrugged. “It’s no one. Now tell me about the night out with Ramona. Why was it stupid?”
Celia put her pen down. Something’s up with you, missy. She chose to respect Emma’s privacy. “He was cute, but he was strange. He did this thing that—” The ring of Emma’s phone interrupted Celia yet again. Celia stopped speaking and frowned at Emma.
Emma picked up the phone and turned it off. “The phone is off. No more interruptions. I’m very sorry.”
“Emma, now it’s your turn to start chirping, as you say.”
“It’s no one. Honestly.”
She