Posts Tagged ‘fictionlet’
Greg shook his head. “Everyone talks about how sophisticated continental Europe is, but I don’t see it. I mean, can you imagine if Prince had sung about how ‘She came in through the ausfahrt’?”
“Greg darling,” sniffed Isadora. “Would you do me the great favor of putting a sock in it? I am trying to have a conversation with my daughter.”
“Well, young Greg, do you see anything on the menu that suits you?” Isadora asked.
“Quite a bit actually,” Greg said. “The hard part is narrowing it down to a single dish.”
“Ugh,” said Brigid. “There’s not enough chocolate on this menu. I’m going straight for dessert.”
“It’s an Italian restaurant,” said Greg. “Where would you possibly put chocolate besides a caffé mocha?”
“Lots of places!” said Brigid. “I mean really, eggplant parmesan? Fuck that noise. Smothered in chocolate is the only way you’d get me to eat eggplant.”
“You’ve never even had eggplant,” said Isadora.
“And nobody ever serves it smothered in chocolate,” said Brigid. “I detect a pattern.”
“Not everything is enhanced by adding chocolate,” said Greg.
“Oh yes it is,” said Brigid. “There’s nothing on this menu that wouldn’t be better with chocolate. Spaghetti? Better with chocolate. Lasagna? Better with chocolate. Garlic bread? Better with chocolate. Hell, I’d eat wasps if they were covered in chocolate.”
“Is that something you’re often called upon to do?” Greg asked.
“Well, no,” said Brigid. “But if the situation ever comes up, I know my stance on it.”
“At least you’ve got it well thought-out,” Isadora said, and quaffed some more of her wine sample.
“Shakespeare would be proud,” Greg agreed.
“To thine own chocolate, be true,” Brigid said, and began to raid the bowl of after-dinner mints.
“Ugh, St. Patrick’s Day, what have they done to you?” said Greg, wincing in dismay at the bar they drove past. “When I was a kid St. Patrick’s Day was ‘wear something green or you get pinched.’ When did it turn into ‘virulent idiots getting drunk on green beer’?”
“When I was a kid Halloween was ‘trick or treat,'” said Brigid. “When did it turn into ‘Sexy Axe Murderer’ costumes? Everything’s been screwed up for ages now. I blame the baby boomers.”
“Yeah. Growing up being told everything was all about them, they believed it, and have just trashed the country and the culture.”
“Hmm,” said Greg. “Well as much as I’d love to use them as a scapegoat, those aren’t baby boomers wearing plastic leprechaun hats and getting blotto we just passed. And it’s certainly not baby boomers in the Sexy Axe Murderer costume. Not any more, at least. You may have an argument for baby boomers having made the mess, but let’s be honest, generation X isn’t exactly cleaning up after them very well.”
“When you grow up in the asylum, you don’t realize that everyone around you is insane,” said Brigid. “Generation X was screwed from the start. All we can do is try to pave the way for the millennials to un-break the world.”
“…says the woman who thinks children should neither be seen nor heard,” said Greg.
“I believe that children are the future,” Brigid said. “And they can have it.”
Brigid stalked the edges of the party, looking like nothing so much as a panther looking for a baby rabbit to gobble down. Finally she spotted the rabbit in question, to wit Greg, who was in the center of a cluster of people, holding them spellbound as he told them some ridiculous anecdote. She instantly made her way to him.
“…and so she pulled out a lighter and said, ‘Lean down here so I can set you on fire,'” Greg was saying, as Brigid elbowed her way through the crowd.
“C’mon,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go.”
“It’s only 9:30,” Greg said.
“Yeah,” said Brigid, “which means I’ve been here a whole 45 minutes and my oath not to commit murder is wearing thin. Let’s go.”
“Fine, fine,” said Greg, and turned back to the faces eagerly hoping for more snappy stories. “Sorry, all. But She Who Must Be Obeyed speaks, and I’m the one driving the car. Good night!”
Coats retrieved, they slipped out into the night. “I do get tired of you wanting to end every party before it begins,” Greg said. “You realize these binges are my main point of contact with the outside world, right?”
“Sorry,” said Brigid, as he unlocked the door. “Work has been bad. We’ll stay longer next time, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” said Greg, as they got in the car.
“For all your time spent alone, you know how to work a crowd,” Brigid said as they pulled out into traffic.
“Well that particular crowd was not a particularly discerning bunch,” said Greg. “I’ve learned that the secret to success, is to only hang around people who are easily impressed.”
“Uh huh,” said Brigid.
“So,” said Greg casually, “what did Zelda say when her would-be rescuer was zapped by a strength-draining ray and couldn’t pick up his sword?”
Brigid just looked at him, on the grounds that it was a no-win situation.
Greg grinned. “You are the weakest, Link!”
“Goodbye,” she said, and made for the next room.
Greg shook his hand in the air. “Guh, you wouldn’t think stirring cookie dough would hurt so much.”
“Worry not!” said Brigid, shoving her finger into the bowl and pulling it out covered in dough and chocolate chips. “Your sacrifice shall not have been in vain!” She greedily gulped down her prize.
“You shouldn’t eat raw cookie dough!” said Greg. “You could get sick from it!”
“No I couldn’t,” said Brigid. “It’s never actually happened to anyone in the history of ever.”
“Of course it has,” said Greg. “There’s the well-known case of Silas Gunderson. In 1874, he was making cookies to comfort himself after having accidentally slashed his arm open on a sewer grate while trying to fend off the diseased rats who chewed off two of the fingers on his left hand. Took one bite of raw cookie dough, and dropped dead on the spot.”
“What?” said Brigid. “That’s stupid. Even if you hadn’t just made that up on the spot, all that would mean was that he died while eating raw cookie dough, not from eating raw cookie dough.”
“Well, yes, but still. Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”
“No, I so don’t,” said Brigid, scooping out another dollop with a large spoon.