Milk

“Honey, did you remember to pick up milk?”

He walked up the front steps of his suburban home, nearly tripping on a flower pot.

“Dumb b***h and her goddamn petunias.” he muttered, coughing mucus out of the back of his throat. 

Reaching the screen door, he entered the kitchen. A shock to the system, really. It was putrid. Walls a shade of yellow that children tend to avoid in the crayon box, checkered floors-

Hell, essentially.

“I said did you get the milk? I told you just this morning. Two percent, remember?” this from the woman standing in said kitchen.

One would think she was an airline stewardess off first glance. Lips made up, feet held up by pumps, body encased by a floral body case thing, a dress. Honest to god, she was hot. She was the kind of hot that caters to skeezy men in bars, the kind of hot that little girls think is just goddamn fabulous. She was hot in a burnt out, suburban housewife kind of way. Really gets the engines going, you know.

“S**t, I forgot. Sorry honey. I had some stuff at the office.. I just, yeah..” a failed remark from Miguel.

“I am making a custard and I just needed it for this recipe.”

It was almost comical, the way she stood, looking as though she were dressed for a drag show- perfectly intent on getting her dairy product.

“Be a dear and get my milk.” she said, nasal.

“Yeah, right.” this from Miguel.

He stumbled out, leaving behind his woman, leaving the perfumed room and the goddamn walls and the goddamn curtains and the goddamn pansy patterned place mats.

A quick drive to the store, that was all. He kept telling himself that. Here now, at the grocery and gas. The little store that could supply her with all the q tips she needed and he with all the drink he needed to cope. It was stingy, a little setup with a bathroom out back that required a key, but was never locked- little square room home to scribbled phone numbers and questionable substances. He walked down the dairy aisle. There it was, the milk. All lined up in little rows. Goddamn rows of goddamn milk. Little writing on cartons pronounced it to be homogenized. Rows and rows of homogenized milk. They stared back at him, he in his wrinkled shirt and khaki shorts. There was something in his eyes that reflected a strong desire not to buy milk. He turned to the cashier, the tired one who had smoked too much, and contemplated just leaving the store. On second thought he got a stale cup of coffee, a dollar was exchanged, and he left. He filled his tank at the adjacent filling station, and set down the road. He resorted to childhood, letting the windows down and turning his fingers into a little running man, moving them up and down out of the window and against the whoosh of air. A song that reminded him of high school pushed its way through the half broken speaker. The pulse of the silly song made him chuckle, and he entered the freeway, heading a direction he’d not traveled before. Logistics bothered him not. He drove away. Away from the yellow kitchen and the lipstick and the job he’d never even liked.

“Goddamn petunias” he muttered, smiling.

Author's Note

Quick

Reviews

[Al R. Arce]

Outstanding narrative! There is absolutely nothing I can tell you to improve it. As a matter of fact I wish I could be as descriptive as you are! You got real talent!

[Lamis]

You have a very fun way of writing, the kind that flows easily in.. I loved it!

[Baby Ricochet]

HA! Great little story. Absolutely loved it!

[Corset]

No custard for you then it seems...ten to one he went home when his tummy grumbled and went without desert like all bad little boys do. Wonderful write!

[soliloquy]

This was freaking funny! I wasn't expecting that ending... lol

Many, many can relate to this no doubt.

[miquinningtons]

-- Hola, me jamo Miguel. --

[Fish]

So short, and so fantastic. Really, just outstanding writing. :)