Saturday, January 13, 2007
Yellow Pen?
Ronald Reagan was on the screen. Meme’s tiny apartment filled with the smell of old tacos and strawberry milk. Hunger clouded his stomach as he was cooking for only the second time this month as rent sucked up his little paychecks he got from the library--150 dollars a week.
Olivia’s shiny black hair caught the silver reflection of the TV, creating a muted glare. She was sitting next to him on a couch that smelled like shampoo. Meme was resting his glasses on his bulbous belly. Olivia’s dirty Nike sneakers were on the ratty coffee table.
“I just washed the couch, so don’t get it all smelly, mocosa”
“You’re the booger-eater. Definitely not the pussy eater, though. I’m fucking hungry. Are those tacos gonna be done soon or what? You cook super slow, man.”
“You want your money? Then just shut up and watch,” he paused as his bad eyes shot to the screen. “What is that, Reagan?”
“Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Don’t act like you don’t love him. Hell, you sell $100 pants to snobs from the other side.”
“I just wrote the slogans, man. Never even touched a dress there. But, so what? We all die poor, Meme.”
“Like a bad Chinese Fortune Cookie. Seriously.”
“Seriously?” she said.
“Seriously”, he answered.
“You’re an idiot. It’s 1986. I mean you bummed around San Francisco for a year after we graduated. You should know that I don’t have to censor myself. Stanford could teach you that, if you got in.”
“Fuck Stanford. School looks like a damn church.”
Olivia had been trying to get in to a good university, but had gotten way too many D’s in high school.
“I need some bank fast, though. Maybe I’ll sell my--“
“Don’t finish that sentence while the Pope is on TV. He’ll send a black car to get you.”
Bad static wiggled out Reagan’s wrinkled face.
“Pssh. I can say whatever the fuck I want.” she said.
He smacked his lips, making a popping sound.
“Like any woman,” she finished.
“But you’re not a woman. You’re still trying.” Meme replied.
