Cold Shoulder

 There’s more going on here than meets the eye. My friend and I planned to come to my suite after lunch, so I could read my work aloud from my computer screen. This was an agreement made in the company of deaf people, with apparently no one listening in. It was all well and good, until two of the women from another couple of tables posed as lingerers in the living room, after eating.

As if it’s any of their business to spoil everybody else’s fun, the way they do. They knew exactly what fun they were spoiling between old friends, and the nature of that fun, too. They’d been lingering there in the living room, rehearsing their Good Book lines, chapters and verses. They had to make certain they had their condemnation right, though it was none of their affair.

Fancy pants, and the woman she was talking to, had a rapport between them, and my friend was condemned if she caved into my wishes. Poor woman had no honorable way to turn. At least, that’s part of the theory, as well as fancy pant’s righteous indignation, at the idea that I dared have something to say some day’s back. They had nothing to do with our plans, except in their condemnation.

My friend asked me if I could bring my computer out into the living room, which amounts to saving all the face she can pull all the air out of our breathing, and she held out that one last hope. I was adamant and dashed it. I made the entire project impossible for her to still hear me read my work. According to her rules, along with the sacred duo. A deals a deal. She was going into my suite.

I think it’s absurd to stay in the living room, when my stories are in my suite.

I’ve been balking at repairing my printer, because my stipend is limited. My friend continues to complain she wants to read my work, while she has major memory issues. It’s been like playing dodge ball, to reply negatively to that woman’s interest in my work. I’ll snuff that interest out if I don’t desist in my own way of thinking. A lot of women have gone some amazing places with me.

I’d spend more than little bit of money getting the printer fixed, spend even more money on printing paper, and finally spend a whole lot more money on printer’s ink. What return do I get on this investment? The first document I put in her hands was treated by mute response. She asked me if I gave her the notebook. I think it’s only a drain on my resources, with little or no return in sight.

The most recent time I gave my friend a notebook of my work to read, she almost couldn’t remember who gave her the notebook in the first place. I’d not only spend a lot of money on printing repairs etc, she’d lose the documents too. I know that sounds callous, but a man’s got to take care of himself first. I’d like to have more readers, but the solitary short story she read got no critique.

For one thing, I had the over the hill beauty queen (fancy pants) standing right in front of me, judging something totally out of context. How my friend felt about the inquisition I have no clue. That over the hill beauty queen’s a case. She’s a Christian with an attitude. Walks out on me when I’m telling a story, with no regress whatsoever. What am I supposed to do with the likes of her?

I’m giving her more cold shoulder than she’s giving me.

Serves her right. There’s my first friend in the whole place. She has her flaws, there’s no doubt about that, but she approaches being lady all the same. She has fits of some kind or other, when she comes into the dining room. Maybe a sort of epilepsy, like me? It was OK to use her phone, when I first arrived, but we didn’t have the condemnation squad looking on as we did today.

I have to give my friend the benefit of the doubt in a situation. She’s been thoughtful toward me, ever since I got here. I saw a friend parading in front of that over hill beauty queen, and that Ms Piety she was talking to, who is more pious than Mary Magdalene, herself? Those two were busy guarding the gates to our lounge, ready to pass judgment on what wouldn’t happen in the first place.

It’s immaterial what we planned to have happen among friends. The point was what that the over the hill beauty queen and Ms. Piety what would assume eveything happened, immediately after my suite door would close. The morality climate of this place is suffocating. To offer to read from my computer is all well and good, until we try to drag appearances past the noses of those two hussies.

There’s a couple of issues about gaining access to my stories. Can I disconnect my computer and bring it into the lounge? Well, no, not really. There’s a fear factor in everything. There happen to be wires attached to my system that I don’t know how to transplant. The other issue is getting my printer fixed, but there are no offers to subsidize the renovation project.

I’m really on a short tether with my resources.

I’m royally annoyed at these two women. They scared off my friend, about the time we would be enjoying my work. I think it’s a dirty trick to treat my closest friend like a harlot, just to ruin our little bit of fun at the last moment. I think they overheard the gist of our plans, and lay in wait for me to try and collect my friend. I’ve seen some remarkable women go some remarkable places.

Some of the most remarkable women doing the most remarkable things in front of God and everybody. But she won’t be in love with me, with a devil may care attitude.

Advertisements

About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s