pg 48


June 12, 2009, 12:26 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

the librarian didn’t know how to go on. she finished up and asked if he need any help with his research. he watned to know about quirks, tendencies, the likelihood of this being passed from father to son. did it matter if it was your mom or your dad and that he was a son and not a daughter? she really didn’t know all that much about genetics. people were ever assuming that being a librarian she was jill of all trades but beyond a masters of library science and a love for can lit she didn’t know much of anything specifically. she would fantasize about margaret atwood when her and her husband were making love. or that atwood, shields, urquhart, calwood, were sitting around in leather back chairs discussing things of their own importance, every now and then one of them turning around to the love making in the background and throwing out a sentence of casual beauty.

she told him as much, that she had no idea. All she knew was that the vikings were to be thanked for her head of red hair. viking rape pale skin splashed across.

i would eventually come to lose my virginity to a beautiful redhead more orange than red and when i did i thought back to this woman, her hair more red than orange, her skin paler. i can’t remember at this point if it was natural or dyed. it certainly looked natural. her face was almost devoid of freckles except the few that pepppered her face and the one prominent under her right eye. eventually i gave up and went home. there were no genetics to answer this hatred of cats. but maybe, i realized walking home, he didn’t hate them only liked them less than he did dogs. This possibility excited and relieved me. i quickened my step.

i knew i still wouldn’t be able to ask him flat out what it was about cats. there i was, hoping for dead cats as dilemma.

-dad did you have any pets growing up? (i would start slow)

-a dog when i was a kid but he died by the time i was 9. he was more your aunt and uncle’s dog than mine

-what was it’s name

-rocky

-what about cats

-no..(he hesitated, thinking)..but underneath my window where i grew up was where the neighborhood cats would fight. my room looked out into an alley. on my street, none of the houses had driveways so everybody’s garages were at the back of their houses so that behind every row of houses ran a street. and they would fight. underneath my window. there was a whole street’s worth of alley windows but they always seemed to fight under mine. sometimes in the morning we would find wisps of fur or small pools of blood. but the sounds. those bastards would fight a world of pain into each other. it got to the point where i couldn’t sleep regularly and had to do something to stop it.

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