Stew stirred his coffee slowly, wondering if he should treat himself to a ride down to the corner store something that tasted better. He normally would have had his coffee black, but the swill his grandmother kept in her cupboard, a cheap brand that she could afford, was just not cutting it, even after several adds of sugar and milk. He hated milk, but could not deny it was saving him from this flavor hell.
He cracked his back and looked out the front windows. His grandmother’s windows always impressed him. For years, he had grown used to the smaller panes of glass that modern windows have, but here, like most grandmother visits, was a step back in time. A large pane, three feet by two feet, gave a view on the street. The glass itself was not without flaws, a result of natural glassblowing. It had a warp in the upper left hand side, giving cars westbound the image of folding into themselves as they disappeared down the avenue. He moved the shade up, having pulled it down to cover the light from the streetlamp a few hours earlier. He eventually had to just move the couch he slept on further up the far living room wall to find some peace to sleep. The move of the furniture did not help him rest, but at least he had tried. His grandmother still suffered in the hospital less than a mile away. He’d have to fight the effects of the bad taste of this coffee and get back there before she tried to down breakfast.
The shade exposed to his view something new that had grown on the curb. Instead of the usual dead grass and weeds on Mrs. Oquendo’s side of the duplex’s evement, a plant of a different sort had grown over night.
There, with the torn up lawns surrounding where the legs had joined the ground, was Mrs. Oquendo’s couch. It had to be hers. Shattered glass dusted the ground from the front of their collective homes and met with the bottom of the angled divan. It sat at an angle, as if it was inviting strangers to join it to watch Stuart put on his shirt in the living room. Stew stared at the brown and red stained behemoth as he got dressed, its pillows remotely placed where they should be but someone who must have been angry.
Stew was puzzled that he had not heard a thing through the night, but sleep came intermittently through his discomfort, so he supposed that when he did finally nod off, it was pretty steep. He had to dig for a shoe underneath the moved couch, a victim of the furniture shift. He felt a specific anger growing, a gift of this new situation. He didn’t want to go to the hospital, for the trip would probably bid further bad news. This situation on the other side of the duplex could also have the gift of aggravations.
Still, Mrs. Oquendo was a sweetheart. She always had greeted him on those lazy summer days with fresh candies and lemonade. She had retired long before his own grandmother had and filled her days with gifts for her grandchildren-cookies and milk and the occasional plaything. She and his own grandmother were dear colleagues, walking together to the senior center for games of cards and DVDs.
In fact, she had spoken with him just yesterday, offering him dinner instead of having to eat at the hospital. Sadly, he had to refuse. But he knew the meal would have been outstanding.
He clasped a lock of his own hair at the disrepair of the couch, a quick inspection before banging on the door. Deep gashes filled the edges, as if the nails of a beast was trying to redecorate the couch before slamming it right off the sidewalk.
Sure enough, the equal grand front window of Mrs. Oquendo’s side of the duplex had been knocked outwards. He ran to the front door as he flipped the cell phone open. He had never had to call 911 before. He wondered what he would have to say. He did not have the place’s address memorized prior, so he stopped at the front step and glanced at the numbers.
“This is 911—what is the nature of your emergency?”
“I don’t know, I’m at, I’m at….”
Mrs. Oquendo was standing before him. Her flowery prints swayed around her girth a gift from both the wind and her size. She had plastic shoes that crushed the pavement with small grinding sounds as she approached Stew.
“Now Stuart, there’s no need for that, sweetheart, no need. You just tell them you’re sorry.”
Stuart looked her up and down to see if there were cuts or bruises. She appeared neat and clean and satisfied.
“I’m sorry, there seems to be a mistake, I thought my neighbor might have had an accident.”
“There you go, sweetheart, now you come her and give Mrs. Oquendo a huge hug!”
Stuart relaxed and looked back at the couch on the side of the street. He hung up the phone, relaxing seeing the eyes of his grandmother’s friend.
“Oh that? Long story, sweetie, long story. You come here.”
He hugged Mrs. Oquendo and missed his own grandmother’s embrace when he arrived after the accident just two days ago.
“What happened Mrs. Oquendo? You alright?”
“I am, I am! Good heavens, you look like you just woke up!”
“I did, when I saw the couch, I need to go get ready to see my grandmother,” he pointed out.
“Oh, you just head right in there and get ready. You need anything? I have food, like I always do! I have fresh coffee, too.”
3 comments:
I love it, Joe. Very nicely written and I wanted it to go on longer.
YES! A response! I was only supposed to do 1000 words---I had an idea what was going to happen next, but, well, guess we'll never know!
You did it!
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