Tailfeathers

After calmly sipping some bottled water, I leaned back in the passenger seat of Jon Osborn's pickup, calmly pressed a couple of buttons on my cell phone, and calmly awaited the loving voice of my one, true, loving lover.

- Tom Carney

HALF-BAKED, WELL DONE

“Hi, Tom,” Maureen answered with cheerfulness and gusto. “What’s up?”

“Well ... I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news. What do you want to hear first?”

“Just tell me what happened,” Maureen said, the cheerfulness replaced with a tone of aggravation.

I gave her the good news first: “Jon’s driving me home instead of the ambulance.”

Thus ended the light and calm, as darkness immediately descended, and gusto fled hastily from her escalating rage.

“WHAT?!!!”

There might have been more to her response, but I didn’t stick around to find out; I held the phone away from my ear.

“What’s that all about?” Osborn asked.

“Aftershocks, Jon,” I said. “I’ve got to be mindful of aftershocks.”

Fifteen minutes later, as we pulled up the driveway, Maureen opened the door from the house and stepped into our garage, offering gracious gratitude to Jon and launching the exasperation in my direction.

“Jon, thanks so much for taking care of him. And you,” she said, her icy stare freezing me in place. “You wait right there.”

Jon unloaded my stuff from the bed of his truck and back-stepped out of the garage, avoiding eye contact with Maureen and making no sudden moves.

With that he left me. Alone. With her.

I didn’t really scream like a girl, but there’s no better way to describe the sound I made as I bolted into the house and dove beneath the covers on the bed.

“All right, Tom! Let’s hear it. What happened?”