09. Milk and cookies (Or, 'Normal')
Turnbull, Myra; Arch To The Sky (age 6); G; 450 words; 09. Milk and cookies.
Myra's younger brother was seated primly at the table and was in the process of making a crumbly mess of a cookie in a glass of milk.
It wouldn't do any good to clean up the mess until he was done, and besides that, the phone conversation she was carrying on was becoming very distressing very quickly.
She paced the kitchen, phone to her ear and the cord stretched across the room, those big blue eyes of Renfield's following her even as he fished a large chunk from the glass.
"It's just not normal, Myra."
"Define normal, Gordon," she replied, as close to a snap as she generally ever got.
The soggy chunk of cookie was dredged from the deep only to be dropped on the floor. Myra pinched the bridge of her nose and chose to ignore it. The hiss of the pot on the stove had her scrambling to take the lid off and keep it from boiling over, tucking the phone between her face and her shoulder.
"Normal. You're twenty years old. You shouldn't be over there every day playing Mum to your little brother. I never get to see you. Half the time when I do, he's there. Where the Hell is your mother?"
"You know what?" Myra slammed the pot lid down on the stovetop. Behind her, she heard Renfield jump; there was a tell-tale tinkle of glass and rush of spilled liquid. She sighed down the phone, practically hearing Gordon's eye-roll. "My mother is none of your business. I don't know who you think you are, Gordon, but just because we go out sometimes doesn't mean you get to--"
There was a heavy exasperated sigh down the line. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."
"Fine. Hang on a second, Renfield's spilled his milk." Absently she righted the empty glass before petting the boy's blonde hair by way of apology for the scare. His lap was soaked. He looked more distressed by the loss of his cookie relics than the wardrobe issue, however.
"Yeah. Listen... I don't think this is going to work."
Myra was dipping a rag in dishwater when he said it, and she nearly dropped the phone. "...sorry?"
"I don't think it's going to work out. Maybe look me up when you have more free time, all right?"
She took the phone from her ear and stared at it. She glanced over at Renfield, who was currently picking smaller soggy cookie pieces off the table and eating them.
She looked at the phone again. "Fine. Suit yourself."
After she hung it up, she pressed the dishrag to her own forehead, breathing out.
Myra's younger brother was seated primly at the table and was in the process of making a crumbly mess of a cookie in a glass of milk.
It wouldn't do any good to clean up the mess until he was done, and besides that, the phone conversation she was carrying on was becoming very distressing very quickly.
She paced the kitchen, phone to her ear and the cord stretched across the room, those big blue eyes of Renfield's following her even as he fished a large chunk from the glass.
"It's just not normal, Myra."
"Define normal, Gordon," she replied, as close to a snap as she generally ever got.
The soggy chunk of cookie was dredged from the deep only to be dropped on the floor. Myra pinched the bridge of her nose and chose to ignore it. The hiss of the pot on the stove had her scrambling to take the lid off and keep it from boiling over, tucking the phone between her face and her shoulder.
"Normal. You're twenty years old. You shouldn't be over there every day playing Mum to your little brother. I never get to see you. Half the time when I do, he's there. Where the Hell is your mother?"
"You know what?" Myra slammed the pot lid down on the stovetop. Behind her, she heard Renfield jump; there was a tell-tale tinkle of glass and rush of spilled liquid. She sighed down the phone, practically hearing Gordon's eye-roll. "My mother is none of your business. I don't know who you think you are, Gordon, but just because we go out sometimes doesn't mean you get to--"
There was a heavy exasperated sigh down the line. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."
"Fine. Hang on a second, Renfield's spilled his milk." Absently she righted the empty glass before petting the boy's blonde hair by way of apology for the scare. His lap was soaked. He looked more distressed by the loss of his cookie relics than the wardrobe issue, however.
"Yeah. Listen... I don't think this is going to work."
Myra was dipping a rag in dishwater when he said it, and she nearly dropped the phone. "...sorry?"
"I don't think it's going to work out. Maybe look me up when you have more free time, all right?"
She took the phone from her ear and stared at it. She glanced over at Renfield, who was currently picking smaller soggy cookie pieces off the table and eating them.
She looked at the phone again. "Fine. Suit yourself."
After she hung it up, she pressed the dishrag to her own forehead, breathing out.