Time seemed to stop as I watched in horror her tongue lapping, slurping, befouling my precious beverage. Images flashed strobelike and in slow-motion across my mind: the headless mouse I had to clean up from the garage floor . . . the bird foot and feathers I had to pick up off the carpet . . . the many furball stains I have had to detoxify out of the carpet . . . Tye-Dye's leg over her head as she washed herself down there.
I tried to run towards the crime scene but, as if trapped in a nightmare, the room seemed to lengthen and narrow with Tie-Dye sitting unreachable—so very far away in a tiny pinpoint of light—guzzling down Momma's cuppa. The harder I tried to run, the heavier my limbs felt and the slower I moved. Finally, after what seemed to be hours minutes seconds, I reached her. I pushed her out of the way, picked up that contaminated mug of mocha, and considered pouring it all out and starting over.
Nah. Too much work. Good morning, Internet, this one's for you. Sip, Aaaah.
Dinner last night: chicken and chips
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