Monk and Joanie, a woman he was once in love with, discussing his upcoming trip to Virginia. This is a vignette to support the book, A Twinkle in the Eyes of God.
“You’re going where?” Joanie asked.
I knew she heard me the first time, but I repeated: “Virginia.”
“Virginia? I thought you’d rather be shot that go back there?” She was sitting next to me in front of my bungalow. It was a warm evening and we were nursing our drinks.
“That’s still an option,” I assured her.
“Jesus, Monk,” she slapped the back of my head, “it’s like pulling teeth. And you brought it up!”
“I did, didn’t I?” I said, stating the obvious.
“So are you going to tell me or not?”
“Uh-huh, like this drink all over your pretty new suit.” Joanie pointed her glass in my direction.
“I don’t think it needs to come to that. And this isn’t a new suit, just new to me.”
“Sure, Monk, sure.” Joanie took a sip of her wine and waved to Mrs. Grumpas, who was walking past.
“I’m going back to help my daughter,” I said, as I waved to Mrs. Grumpas. “I wonder where her husband is?” Mrs. Grumpas rarely went anywhere without her husband, Herman.
“Herm’s in the hospital, something to do with his prostate,” Joanie informed me. She always knew what was up with the old folks here at the Moonlight Arms. “Help your daughter how?”
“Something about her idiot husband,” I said.
“Prostate troubles?” She laughed at that.
“I doubt it. He’s a little young for that.”
“Why’s he an idiot? Not that you’d know much about being an idiot…” She laughed at that too.
“No, not much.”
The Ontavarises, Olivia and Cresto, holding hands, walked by. They smiled and wished us a good evening.
“How long are you going for?” Joanie asked, as the Ontavarises went into their bungalow, which was two down from mine.
“Hopefully not too long. I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect to begin with.”
“You don’t want tot see your daughter?”
“It’s not that, and why does everyone ask that?” I whined.
“You, Agnes, Moses—”
“That’s only three,” she said. “Shouldn’t there be more for you to complain so much?”
“It’s not quantity, it’s quality,” I said.
“You’re not being very supportive, you know.”
“Then get the gun,” she laughed.
“Very nice,” I grumbled.
“Just considering the source,” she said, tipping her glass.
I shook my head and frowned, but tipped my glass anyway. I knew this wasn’t an argument I’d win.
©2020 David WIlliam Pearce