A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story
“Took you long enough.” So said My Lady Disdain.
I blinked. I blinked at the sudden change in the light, coming indoors from the bright sunlight, but I also blinked at the challenge. But I knew what she meant, and it’s hard to beat the truth, so I said, “I got distracted.”
Just me, no Naso. My Adoracion is home for the week, and I wasn’t sure my gangly little girl would be welcome at a UPS store. Sun City is the dog-friendliest big city I’ve ever lived in, but there are limits to everything.
Just not there. My Lady Disdain was strictly business, standing behind the counter, her long brown hair just so, her grass-green eyes taking in everything. But off in a corner was the Skatepunk, sprawled on the floor being mauled by three kittens — a black longhair, a black shorthair and a shorthaired tuxedo.
My Lady Disdain is the Skatepunk’s girlfriend, of course. I’ve been planning to meet her and not getting it done for a month. I have an excuse: I got distracted.
“‘Lean-look’d’? Where’d you get that? Didn’t they teach spelling at your school?”
Talking to someone today who has read something I wrote yesterday is disconcerting. I don’t know that I can get used to it. And I didn’t even know how to begin to address the question.
Luckily, I didn’t have to. From the back room of the store, a woman’s voice said, “It’s from Richard the Second, dear.” The voice acquired a body, a slim woman with snow-white hair tied up in a bun behind her head. Her eyes were blue and piercing, and they danced as she spoke: “‘And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change: These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.'”
“My dog is dying,” I said to My Lady Disdain. “It was just a little nod to her. People normally don’t notice that kind of thing.”
“She notices everything,” said the Skatepunk.
Snow White said, “I’m sorry to hear about your dog.” And she was, too. The sorrow had dropped on her face like a curtain.
“She’s taught me about love every day I’ve known her, but she’s saved her best lessons for the end.” This is sentimental, I suppose, but it’s also true.
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Volume One of The Naso Diaries