comments_readers: As always, this work, like my others, is one of fiction. Each of them requires an everyday event as its basis and then wanders off into its own little fantasyland. Fantasy is a lovely place to spend a little time... My stories are drawn from that place. If one has problems distinguishing between Fantasy and Reality, get yourself a different map!
I certify that no children or puppies or kittens are ever injured in the creation of my stories. Well... maybe the occasional kitten. And then, only when he walks on my keyboard! If you don't like stories of this nature, then what in the world are you doing on this site?! Otherwise, welcome aboard! Enjoy! Stay a while...
"Rob! You aren't wearing a shirt," My across-the-street neighbor and frequent muse admonished me. The adorable eight, almost nine-year-old stood in front of me with another, unfamiliar, girl of similar age next to her. "Did you forget that I was bringing Deandra over today?"
I would like to say that it all came rushing back to me. Instead, I asked, "What was I doing when you mentioned it?"
"I didn't just mention it," corrected the blond, blue-eyed cutie, "I asked you if it was okay and you said it would be fine and that you would love to meet my cousin."
"So I take it from the clever way you dodged my question that I was up to my eyeballs killing alliance types and, being a poor example of a rationale, functioning human multi-tasker, in other words, a male," I replied, "that I said something of which I have no recollection."
Red-headed Deandra blinked several times in succession, while Anna gave me of her delightful cocked head looks that said she agreed with my assessment and felt sorry for my limitations all at the same time. "I think you were playing the game," she agreed.
"Aha!" I exclaimed triumphantly, "Then I would say that the problem is not that I am not wearing a shirt, but that you two are!" We had long ago arrived at the agreement that I could not be bound to arrangements made while I was killing alliance as I was likely to accede to almost anything. In this case, anything was having a shirt on when my young neighbor wandered in to my house with her cousin in tow.
I continued, "Besides, if I am expected to set a good example and wear a shirt when you bring Deandra over to meet me, shouldn't you at least knock on the door to warn me that you are here? What kind of example are you setting for this lovely young lady?" I turned to Deandra, "Feel free to just come on in anytime you come to visit, beautiful."
"You are impossible," said Anna as she stepped forward to exchange kisses with me. I knelt to receive her as our lips touched and opened and our tongues greeted each other like old friends. The last things I remember seeing before my world shrank to include just Anna and myself were the big, round, hazel-colored eyes of Deandra watching the two of us embrace.
I must beg your pardon, dear reader. You are also my guest and I am afraid I have thrust you into an unfamiliar situation as though you were already intimately aware of it. Assumption of information not properly provided is another weakness of mine - one of many, if we were to allow Anna to testify.
Let me try to rectify... I am thirty-eight, unmarried and likely to remain that way unless the rules change or I move to Lebanon. You see, my ideal mate would be somewhere between eight to twelve years old. My looks are okay, I suppose. I am still waiting to be kicked out of bed for the first time for eating crackers. My hair is still there and still dark (a good friend, some twenty years older than me upon having it pointed out that he was turning gray replied, 'I don't care what color my hair turns, so long as it doesn't turn loose.') I am six feet, three inches tall, that is a considerably larger number of centimeters for those of you who are into that sort of thing and I weigh 210 pounds which, I am told, is not quite 100 kilograms. And, by the way, I do not even have a clue how many stone that is! I have supported myself for the last fourteen years as a professional writer. I write grant proposals for medical professionals and ghost write journal articles for those same folks. It really is amazing how boring otherwise highly intelligent researchers can be when they have to sit down and prepare an article.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Changes last made on: Sunday, October 19, 2014