feel the murder instinct peeking out of its Paleolithic cave. I decided
it was a grave injustice that people should be held captive in such
situations, unable to escape because consensus has deemed it
unsavory to tell old people just to shut the hell up. She may not have
realized this, but I was her prisoner, and she was as callous and
criminal as any medieval inquisitioner. She was milking it for all it
was worth, too. Crack! went the whip of her tongue at the beginning
of every new sentence. I prayed that every word would be the last,
and that she would allow us both the reprieve of our green flan, but
she simply could not stop talking.
“…blah blah blah Crack! SALARY blah blah Crack!
GRANDCHILD WITH GENIUS I.Q. blah blah blah Crack! NEW
LINCOLN CONTINENTAL blah blah…Crack! MY HEMMORO…”
“I am going to take a nap now, Mrs. Rosenzweig.” I declared like
an uncompromising substitute teacher who has finally reached his
limit.
“Madge,” she said.
“Madge,” I repeated. She finally clammed up, throwing in one
last remark about the jewelry I had just taken out of my flight bag—
the gift I was going to give to Charly in a few hours.
“For me?” Madge twittered. “Oh, you shouldn’t have!”
I ignored her, surveying the golden ring, gleaming with small
diamonds. It was simple and good, and worthy of a roost on Charly’s
finger, but not just because it was a nice ring. It was worthy because
it was blessed with the true honesty of the strongest of my feelings.
She had taught me well. My mind became slowly pinpointed with
light, and the fantasy theater inside my head started up once again
playing the only love story it ever knew.
Charly didn’t think much of me at first. To her I was just that tall,
unkempt guy with a mess of dark hair who always wore a huge pair
of hiking boots, spoke out too much in class, and would have done a
lot better to keep my mouth shut. Okay, so some of my facts were a
little fictional, and most of my arguments were there just for the sake
of argument, but I sure got discussions rolling.
My initial take on her wasn’t blue-chip either, at first. I pegged
her for one of those standard-issue sorority girls. The kind you have
to hate because they’re so great-looking and happy all the time.
Then, during our senior year, in a Women’s studies elective
(Literature by Lesbians) we were assigned to the same experimental
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
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