|Good-bye Sammy (standard:drama, 1623 words)|
|Author: Walt||Added: Apr 14 2013||Views/Reads: 3911/995||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The final resolution of an unhappy relationship|
Good-bye Sammy I hit the snooze button with the red display flashing 6:30. It was time to get up but last night had been busier than I planned. It took a long time to say good-bye to Sam. I needed ten more minutes of peaceful sleep. Last night had been the best sleep I had had in the past fifteen years. I closed my eyes; however the replay of our ill-fated marriage was playing. In Technicolor, and Panavision, with Dolby surround sound. I watch too many of those old movies on Turner Classic – you know those ancient reruns with host Robert who never looked as good after his face lift. Sam could use a facelift, but it was too late for him. The son of a bitch. It was the third marriage for both of us and you would think we would both know better – have fewer expectations. Sammy was into all that oriental crap about how to live in harmony with yourself and the world. He hung pictures in some kind of an imagined form that spoke of peaceful relations and balance between yin and yang. Not satisfied with Chinese Tai Chi, he practiced some form of Japanese mystical chanting, stretching and chopping things with the side of his hands, all the while tracking his sweating bare feet around the house like some Sumo wrestler. He would wear that shabby red robe, tied with a golden cord sash, his private parts swinging in the breeze like some prize bull, bellowing Japanese words. The silly bastard was only five foot four and other than the drooping mustache and weighing 210 pounds, looked nothing like a Sumo giant. I was forever sweeping up the salt that he tossed during his grunting, wrestling-warm up stomps. The salty brine of human sweat and 100% Pure Sea Salt was difficult to mop off the hardwood floors. What an idiot. As I lie there with my knees up I could still hear his annoying voice: “Chanti – where's my effing crossword book? Goddamnit woman, why are you always hiding things on me?” That was another thing I grew to dislike about husband number three: his language. He swore at everything in the house, including me and the cat. Outside the home, in company, he spoke like a gentleman, using his fancy university words. He knew and used all the buzz words that the university crowd thought they owned even though most of them came straight from the street. It was one of those words that had finally won me over fifteen years ago. When I was hesitating about marrying again he promised me it would be like tsundere – the Japanese word for personal relationships that grew together in harmony. It sounded wonderful at the time and I fell for it, promising life-long fidelity, good times and bad, sickness and health, wealth and poverty. I kept my word for fifteen years, which was more than he did. The faithless scoundrel. The alarm clock was shouting at me again so I crawled out into the chill of a January 3rd morning, the ice-cold tile floor hurrying me to the washroom. The holiday season was over and Sammy was supposed to go into work for the noon-hour shift. Sammy would be absent today. I pushed the brew button on Mr Coffee and headed for the shower. The tingling, almost stinging jets of water felt good as I soaped, shampooed and scrubbed away the grime of yesterday and even yesteryear. Mother Macbeth should feel so clean. I went over the list of things I needed to do before embarking on my trip. Carlos, our tiger-striped cat – my cat - was vacationing at the Pampered Pet Resort, his board paid for three weeks. Carlos did not mind staying at the PPR since once every two weeks we took him to cat daycare at PPR as a treat where he could play with other cats. It seemed a little extravagant, but when I explained to Sammy that some of his university friends did this, he acquiesced. Carlos would be okay until Janice picked him up in three weeks if I did not return on time. I called my mother at the Retirement Home. “Hi Mom, it's Chanti,” I said. Some days Mom did not know or remember who I was. I mean, how many daughters are named Chanti? I thought she had misspelled my name at birth, thinking of her favourite Italian red wine – that one with entirely indifferent taste and total lack of consistency which she thought was superb. Anything Italian was wonderful to Mom. “How are you, dear?” she replied. “Are you coming over today?” “Not today, Mom. Remember, I'm going on vacation for three weeks. Sammy Click here to read the rest of this story (82 more lines)
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