Such A Temperate Day It Was

James and Elliot Productions

 Such a temperate day it was. Both James and I had entered the deli in desperate search of some food. Given the humid weather, James bought himself coconut-flavored ice cream. I couldn’t buy a single thing in the store since I had not even one cent on me. My Bohemian lifestyle was not faring off well; I guess starvation is the way to go. Charge anorexia head on, teehee. With a sigh, I decided I’d eat when I get home, not spend any of James’s money since he always offers to feed me. Telling James I had no money to afford any of the items in the store that were ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar, we left to our inanimate companion: our black box.

            Sitting upon the slanted box released any stomach growling or sharp intakes on my kidney. As James unwrapped his delectable ice cream cover, the ice cream fell out of his gauche hands and on to our beloved black box. Now, this would not have mattered to the highest degree if it had been OUR black box. The unfortunate truth set it: hundreds of other people have sat on our particular “territory” and we had no possible idea what substances were actually on the black box. This had now just turned into a disease-ridden nauseating “vomitrocious” pit of repulsive bacteria.

            Quickly, James picked up the ice cream and we both looked at it, the same thought going through our heads: there is no way in hell James is going to eat that filthy excuse for his excessive appetite. I look at him hoping he won’t do what I suspect he would.

            “I hope you don’t eat that,” I say, my eyes still in place.

            “I’m hungry,” says James in a poignant tone. Next thing I see him do is scrap off some of the ice cream. Then he begins to eat it again. I shrug off my disbelief and lean back against the spindly and flimsy backboard. I feel horrified, but I realize that if my hunger were so critically dire and I had spent a dollar in spite of my exceptionally stingy nature, I would’ve ate it too.

            After this disturbing chain of events, when I make it securely home I get a phone call. And who may it be? Why, none other than James of course. He pouts on the phone about how much his stomach aches.

            “I told you not to eat it,” I reply noticing it isn’t the most accommodating thing to say, but what else would there be to respond?

            But before I get to make another comment, James speedily answers that his abdomen was conspiring against him once more and that he had to scamper for the bathroom. Thus, he hangs up the phone with me on the opposite line laughing in amusement. Ah, the price of low price.

 

Author's Note

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