25 Apr Quarantine and Chill: Chapter Three

This is a Science-Fiction Story and a complete work of fiction, meant entirely for entertainment. I write these stories as writing practice.

In the morning,

I was sitting at my table, deciphering hieroglyphics of the hyperactive, photographic memory of my mind, when all of a sudden, I hear her storm into the living room like she might have just found a cure for the virus and said to me, “What exactly is this?” As she held up a crumpled post-it note in her hand, I couldn’t help but notice that she still had a wry smile in her conversational mannerisms.

I looked up at her real quick, heavily annoyed, “One of the many notes that I write?”

She exhaled whole-heartedly while she read the note, “Obsessive rather than obedient?”

I looked her up and down, very detail-oriented, I’m sure that she could feel me tracing her with my eyes as I said, “Yeah, it’s supposed to say, obsessive instead of obedient.”

She gave me a disgusted look, “It’s the same observation?”

I took a sip of coffee, it was the first sip of the day, everyone, I am sure, knows what that aromatic, “And you just assume that I wrote that about you?” I made sure to make my voice sound extremely collegiate, almost like a connoisseur of the Renaissance (when comparing a pronounced sense of artistic intellect, of course).

She put her hands on her hips with her elbows angled out, “Why do you think?”

I continued my professor-like performance, “Look lady, how many notes do I and have I put up on that board, on a routine basis, yet all of a sudden you’re deciding to get slutty over some note, nay, a ponder of mine? When there is a plethora of postulates bound to the board? You getting overwhelmed over four words? ”

She started steaming like a teakettle nestled on a propane stove, “Slutty?”

 I responded like nostalgia through a speaker, “I was experimenting using that word interchangeably to represent thoughtfulness. You know how I’d never call you a slut, especially when you ain’t even thottie towards me anymore.”

She angrily walked out of the living room and I could hear her heavy-footed as she inclined the stairs. After a few moments I heard a window break and a loud thud outside of the living room window. I glanced outside and saw that she had thrown my Psychology P.H.D. degree plaque threw the window. She then made her way back downstairs to the living room, where she calmly said, “How’s that for reverse psychology?”

I laughed like a hyena that had just feasted, “Luckily it’s not raining today…”

She grabbed her purse and keys from off of the table next to me like she was getting ready to leave. I decided to charmingly intervene, “What are you doing around 9 pm tonight?”

She sighed that had a hint at both intrigue and annoyance, “I’m not sure, why are you asking?”

I started to speak with a sly connotation as I clicked my pen, “I was wonder if I could take you on a date this evening…”

She turned around with centripetal tenacity, “We’re in quarantine, dumbass, no where is open.”

I briefly chuckled as I pulled out my phone and sent her a photo, “That’s the location.”

She excitedly checked her phone and saw the photo that I had sent her; it was of a makeshift bar that I had arranged in the backyard patio. She warmly smiled and said, “I’m not sure, I’m kind of busy tonight. I’ll see if I can make it.” She walked out of the room with a beaming aura.

I smoothly hollered, “I hope to see you there… and you better be looking real good.” I then heard her slam the bedroom door shut.

Then the clock struck 9 pm,

I was sitting at the makeshift bar, handwriting the drink menu. I had taken a shower and wore cologne in hopes to enhance my chances of getting some action from her in the championship hours of the evening, for those of you that don’t know what that means… well, I guess you’ve never championed a girl during the oddly promiscuous hours of a romantic rendezvous before.

I wrote an initial drink menu, but immediately lit the paper on fire and used it to light the several candles that I had strategically placed around the bar to encapsulate a perfect-lighting environment. I then wrote a second bar menu, in the shittiest of handwriting that I could possibly use, which for some reason, has always been the type of calligraphy that she is most fond of.

Upon the drink menu, I wrote a few simple words that offered two choices:

The first drink was named Cursive and the sub-description scripted: Prism-Dipping.

The second drink was named Italics and the sub-description scripted: Bliss.

The dialect of my handwriting was poised, yet messily confident as I slid the menu to the middle of the bar.

I looked down at my watch and the time was puzzled, I began to worry that she would not show up for my impromptu date request.

Seconds swung like a pendulum until I heard a knock at the porch door. She was dressed eloquently, sexy if I might add, like she was about to attend some sort of luxurious masquerade affair.

I slid open the screen door and chivalrously introduced, “I’m glad that you didn’t have any issues with the valet.”

She smiled a smile that she would often smile before the virus-created quarantine existed, “Quite the establishment that you found here.”

She took a seat at the bar, sitting next to me, we both looked at each other with an awkwardness caused by the sure stupidity of such an imaginative environment. I broke the silence and said, “So, what do you want to drink?”

She looked at the menu and laughed a blush into existence as she sweetly said, “This is the first poem that you ever wrote for me.”

Before I had time to respond, both of our phones simultaneously rang, the caller ID said ‘unknown.’

As we both went to silence the ringers the lights in the house shut off.

She looked at me as if she was asking if this was a part of my planned theatrics and I quietly responded, “Someone, or something, or some people clearly have a disturbing interest in us. “

We ducked behind the bar as she whispered to me, “Do you need me to get you your revolver?”

I quietly held up both of my fists, in a way that she could clearly see my biceps flexing and I arrogantly said, “Lethal.”

She smiled and gave me a kiss, “Go get them.”

As I stood up, an object hit the side of the house with the speed of a fastball. I ran over to the side of the house and saw that the object was a regular deadbolt door lock. I picked it up off of the ground and walked back over to the bar, “I think someone might have broken in…”

She tried to hold back a laugh as she whispered to me, “You’re so stupid.”

I reached into my shirt pocket, pulled out my artifact key, inserted it into the lock and turned it. The lights in the house immediately flickered.

*To Be Continued In Chapter Four*