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Well-Done



My neighbor across the hallway knocks on my door at midnight. Her cat is lost, and without it, so is she, she says. Margaret’s fat and ugly, but her boobs are enormous and very inviting, especially this late. I’m lazy, you see, so she’s like manna from Heaven. Besides, it’s too late to go out hunting for a cat of my own that would soon run from me just the same way hers has. I’m lazy about coffee, too, and when she asks for some, instant it is.

"I don't have deep pockets like McDonalds," I warn her, "so be aware of the fact that hot coffee is hot."

She laughs in a dry way, throaty. Cali is her cat’s name, she informs me, and it’s a calico cat if I happen to see it anywhere. I wonder what kind of cat it is if I don’t see it anywhere. Her cat is her life, she says, and please call me Margie, because we are close neighbors.

It’s not the first time the cat’s taken off from her place, I know. I’ve heard her calling the eternally meowing creature into the wee hours of the night when I was trying my damnedest to sleep.

The caffeine tranquilizes her and she smiles.

“She’s really a good kitty,” Margie says, wide gaps showing in her jagged teeth. Yellow-stained, almost a mustard color, veined with copper and black streaks. “She loves it when I feed her a little steak every Thursday, well-done of course. I can’t understand why I can’t find her. I put it outside my door about two hours ago and it’s gone, but Cali’s not to be found anywhere. My newspaper’s missing, too.”

“I'm sure she’ll turn up, and I just happen to have today’s paper. You’re welcome to it.” Silently I am thankful that newspapers aren’t addressed to the subscribers.

Margie shakes her head and says she hopes so; she doesn’t know what in the world she’d do without that cat; it’s her “soul mate,” and the last present her husband gave her before he threw himself in front of a semi after the market tanked in ’09. To top it all off, she says, someone’s green car is parked in her space and she had to park far away and carry her groceries to her apartment in the pouring rain.

I frown to show sympathy, trying not to stare at Margie’s ample breasts, ripe for milking. I nod toward my dining table, enticing her to stay a while with food that she obviously enjoys so much. Luckily, I’ve cut it in into unrecognizable shapes.

“There’s a little bit of steak I’d be happy to share with you, Margie. Would you like some?”

“Well-done?”

“Of course,” I reply, and Margie smiles.

I start to ask if calico cats have orange, black, and white blotches like the one I ran over this afternoon with my green Jeep and threw into the dumpster, but Margie has ample breasts, ripe for milking.

This story was written by Tony Wayne Brown, who has won contests by Art Forum Magazine and Union Writers, second-place, Writers' Journal, two honorable mentions in Writers' Digest, and others. His work has been published over 71 times, including Bartleby Snopes, Liars' League Hong Kong, Main Street Rag, Huffington Post, Foliate Oak, The Charles Carter, Long & Short Review, Long Story Short, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, Birmingham Arts Journal, Thirteen O'Clock Press, Ealain, and Vestal Review.
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