Banana story?

Random story about life and such!

                “Why don’t you write a short story about bananas?” “That’s just stupid…” “Nah. Come on it’ll be fun!” I’ll use “there was” first because “there was” a genuine sense of wonder in her eyes, regardless of how much I loath writing like that. “Bananas?” And I’ll come back to the “there was” again to tell you all about the silence that only lasted a moment. “Yes!” she said, and I thought a while. She got up from the chair I’d been waiting to sit in for the past hour or so, finally, to pour the tea from the pot that went off, an hour ago, it seemed. “How many sugars?” “Three.” The rummaging from the kitchen was pissing me off. She could never do anything quiet. That, and it was quite obvious to me now that there wasn’t a damn place to even sit the tea. I had one of those dollar store eating tables, you know, the kind people buy so they don’t spill s**t from their plate on their lap, cause you always do that, every time, it’s insanity quite honestly, one of those things you couldn’t avoid if you were the goddamn president or something. My laptop took up damn near the whole thing, with the power cord making it difficult to move it in any useful way. Still, she came with the tea, hot as hell and all, she was holding it by the handle which made it a chore to grab myself. “Set it on the floor!” “But you’ll spill it.” “Ehhhhh.” I cattycornered the laptop in this off a*s way, just to make this small little space at the edge, and she set it there, god it was a pain. “So you’ve gotta write about something?” “I know that. Dear.” She hated it when I called her that. “Then what are you gonna do?” I didn’t look up but I just knew she had this pissy a*s face on. I could feel it. So I just sat silently. All you could hear were keys clicking, or clanking, I haven’t decided yet, until this bottom-toothed, hair-blowing sigh took over. God it was long. She flopped back in my favorite chair again and began rocking away. She did that when she was pissed. We both did. “Why do you have this smug a*s way about ya?” I could tell she put some thought into that, even if it came out a little confusing in the wording. “What do you mean?” “Why. Do you always seem like you think you are better than every other writer that’s ever lived?” She stopped me from responding. “Like, why can’t you just write a damn banana story?” “It comes with the job, dear.” “Oh?” We both by now had raised eyebrows as if we were a couple of damn lost tourists. “Yeah! Right!” I was looking right at her. She took a sip of her tea, probably the first one. Mine was still sitting on the table edge untouched. “I don’t even know why I try anymore…” she said so softly. I don’t think she even said it. “Look.” “I’ll tell you exactly how writers think.” “Or at least the good ones.” “If that’ll make you feel better.” She just sat running her finger around the rim of her tea. Dunno how she didn’t burn herself. God she was such a secret drama queen. “I am better than “every other writer”.” “If I doubted that for one second I would have never started writing.” “God. Can’t you just see I don’t want to have an ego, but I’m nothing without one?” She was still doing the same thing. Looking down into the reflection of her drink. I saw that the last line of my work was riddled with random letters. And slammed the laptop down. It must have taken an uncomfortable five minutes to move the tray from my legs so I could get up. Tea spilled all over the carpet. I steadied it, then picked it up by the body. I think it had turned cold but I couldn’t be sure. I gave it an extra four sugars or so. I wasn’t mad, just loud.  The cabinets were slamming themselves, I swear. I ended up with my hands on the counter, arms outstretched, to be so s****y and descriptive. She sprung up from where she sat, came over, took the keys to the outside door off the counter, not even in a hasty way either, than out the door she went. I don’t think she was mad either, but she wasn’t loud. She never was. I left the horribly ruined tea on the counter and went over to my favorite chair, and plopped right in that b***h. And just sat there a minute. My laptop was making a terrible sound. When I began to rock I saw the cup she had left. Her tea cup. All the way empty. Not a drop inside that I could see. She’d finished it all. And mine was still full, ruined, cold. Acting out a metaphor for my life. Alone. I got up, unplugged the power cord to my laptop, scooped it up and sat back in the chair with it resting on my lap. “Yummy and yellow was the sunshine from the trees. The monkeys never saw it coming. They had come to mimic the color. And the taste. They had come to grow in groups together. And the monkeys, they didn’t know what hit em. A pick and a peel later. They still grew in the sun. Forever returning for their master. And never asking a thing. It took all the words in the world to gather. To shake them from their homes. And the monkeys. Well they were happy either, or.”