2. Desiccated to the one I love.
The situation so far:
Vlad, a vampire, intends to kill Gladys, a wife, with oatmeal, a desiccant, in the kitchen, a room.
We left them standing in the kitchen, still a room, with a spoon, a metal utensil, poised halfway to the mouth, cakehole of the human body, loaded with oatmeal, deadly beige desiccant. Now read on.
On.
Well done, now …………… the story.
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Vlad held his breath. Partly to avoid the horror of accidentally inhaling the deadly beige desiccant and partly because it was really quite exciting. It wasn’t every day one desiccated one’s wife. One did , of course, drink the blood of living victims, every night but that still left them quite moist. Often, if he was honest, rather sweaty, especially in the summer.
Gladys stopped, the spoon lifted so near to her chin:
What?
What do you mean: what?
You’re looking at me funny.
No I’m not.
Yes, you are. You’re all squinty. Do you need glasses or something?
No. I have perfect night vision. And day vision. Perfect night and day vision.
What on earth do you want to see at night?
Nothing.
So what’s all this rubbish about night vision? Me, I’m asleep the minute my head hits the pillow and that’s it for the next eight hours.
I know. You snore.
It can’t be loud. You never complain.
(I’m not there, thank goodness.) No dear. Eat your breakfast, you’ll be late for the gym.
Ooh, crikey, yes, look at the time.
Gladys raised the spoon to her lips. She opened her mouth. She began to put the spoon in her mouth. Her lips began to close on the deadly desiccant.
Rat,tat tat.
Oh good, it’s the postman.
Who cares!
I do, I’m hoping it’s something I sent for.
Gladys flopped the spoon back in the bowl, chucked the bowl on the counter and rushed to the door. Vlad prodded the desiccant morosely as Gladys engaged in pointless chit chat with the postman. Eventually she finished her conversation and clattered back into the kitchen on her anti-gravity workout sandals.
Bill, bill, over fifties life insurance, double glazing, support a jellyfish sanctuary, Christmas catalogue in aid of retired milkmen, supermarket points update.
I’ll do it, I’ll do it, bin. bin. bin. bin, you do it. Where are you off to now?
Where did you put the scissors?
Here.
Gladys expertly slid the scissors along the edge of the blue plastic bag, retrieved the contents and clattered out into the hall. Vlad followed her.
You’ll be late.
Got to try it on.
Vlad mooched back into the kitchen. Carefully lifting the blue plastic bag he was dismayed to see it had scattered the desiccant over the bench. The bowl was nearly empty. Tutting sub vocally with his mouth firmly shut Vlad lifted the bowl to the edge of the bench and, using the newspaper to marshal the oatmeal into a little heap, finally swept it all back into the bowl, avoiding touching it with his fingers. He placed the bowl back on the bench, folded the newspaper and waited.
After a few minutes he unfolded the paper and began to read the headlines. The state the world was in was shocking, really. Some days it didn’t look as if there was a politician anywhere who could be trusted. Power crazed, most of them. European finances in freefall again. Desperate revelations about nothing much by some pop star short of publicity. An old woman suing a supermarket because she’d got frostbite shoplifting frozen chickens. Weather normal for the time of year………..how was that news?
Vlad put the paper down and went into the hall, listening. From upstairs came the noise of wardrobe doors banging. After a moment’s hesitation he flew up and landed on the landing.
The bedroom resembled a high class charity shop. There was clothing everywhere. Gladys had taken the full length mirror out of the wardrobe and had it propped against the wall. She was minutely examining herself.
What do you think?
They’re a bit tight.
What are?
The shorts. They’re a bit tight.
What’s that got to do with anything? I know they’re tight. It’s to make you perspire. It’s the top that’s new. What do you think?
It doesn’t go with the shorts.
Of course not!
Oh………….is that…. colour blocking, or something?
No but well done for knowing about it. The top is to go with these jeans. Look.
Gladys retrieved a pair of green jeans from the bed and, kicking off her sandals, hauled them on, over the neoprene workout shorts.
There, what do you think?
You’re not going to go out like that?
Of course I’m not, don’t be silly. What do you think? Come over here and look in the mirror.
No! Thank you……… I can see from here. I suppose it’s OK.
What about this skirt?
Gladys pulled a skirt out from the pile on the bed and put it on over the jeans.
What do you think?
Not all at once.
Ha, ha yes. Very funny. No, look though, what do you think? What if I tuck the top in? Hmm. How about this cardigan, on top? Hmm? How about with the sleeves pushed up? Hmm? Oh, hang about, this long bead necklace? Oh that’s better, it just lifts it, doesn’t it? Would it be better with the yellow cardigan, do you think? What do you think, Vlad, really?
Carefully avoiding the mirror Vlad inched into the room and stared at his wife. She stared back from beneath curlers, IPod headphones, a black-head nose strip, a yellow cardigan, a blue cardigan, a new floral top, a work out vest, a sports bra, a string of beads, a pleated skirt, a pair of green jeans, neoprene jogging shorts, a workout thong and bare feet.
Lovely.
You’re just saying that to shut me up.
No, really. The colour of the top goes with your (ears? face? slight moustache?) eyes. It goes with your eyes. (Like mud coloured marbles.)
Oh! Is there hazel in it?
Gladys squinted down at her chest.
Green. There’s a little bit of green in it.
Oh, so it does go with the jeans.
Perfectly.
I’ll keep it then. It goes with my jelly watch too. Oh look at the time! Why didn’t you say! I’m going to be late. Leave the bedroom, I’ll do it after. Oh why did you make me try all this on? I haven’t got time.
Gladys pushed her feet back into the anti-gravity sandals and teetered down the stairs. With hope springing high in his disappointed heart Vlad followed her and was barely into the kitchen when she thrust a spoon full of deadly oatmeal deep into her mouth and gulped it down like a desperate contestant in an eating competition. Before Vlad could properly get into the room she had downed another spoonful, barely masticating she was on to a third before she suddenly stopped, curlers quivering as the change over took her. She looked up at Vlad, her eyes twin orbs of mud-like horror as she suddenly
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JaneLaverick.com – not advertising breakfast cereal, at all.