Skip to main content

Tom and Carol

Yes, this is the same Tom from the scene at the restaurant. So far I'm just getting little snippets.
---
When I met Carol Muncie, she was sixty-eight. As we sit facing each other over the interrogation table, I note that not much has changed in the last fifteen years. She still smokes heavily and bathes little. The smell is so thick I am fighting not to gag.

"Still a faggot, detective?" She's also a bitch.

"Any doubts I have about that are always cleared up after an evening with you, Carol." She eyes me, digesting this, considering her next insult. It's always the same.

"And how's your boyfriend?" My jaw clenches involuntarily.

"Dead. Yours?"

"Been a long time. Figured you'd have had a string of new ones by now." It's my turn to read between the lines. That was almost a compliment, in a backhanded sort of way. She's losing her touch. "Far as mine, well, he'll be shaking hands with yours soon enough."

"Finally got your hands on some elderberry wine, did you?" She fixes me with a stare, tries to look confused, but I know better. If there's one thing I can always count on, it's that Carol's as sharp as her own tongue. That's why she's here, after all. Finally, she gives up on pretense.

"No way in hell. If anybody's going out with anything that expensive on their tongue, it's me."

"Oh yes, well, now we're getting to it. See, I almost died over an expensive meal about a week ago, Carol, and I'm fairly certain you know who was behind it. And how they got away so quickly."

Her good eye is focusing on me now, almost like she can see through me.

"You weren't that close to dying."

"That's not the point."

"I think it is."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because," she grins, "they want you alive. If they wanted you dead, believe me, we wouldn't be having this little chat."

"So who is, 'they,' and what do they want?"

"Don't know, detective. They may have been asking questions about you, but that's all I know."

"Come on, Carol, you always know more than that." Her face has gone gray. Wrinkles multiply around her eyes as she squints at me, then turns so I can only see her bad eye. She's too scared to tell me. That's a first.

"This time I don't. Now, can I go, or would you like to," she tugs at one of her blouse's buttons, looks back at me, "persuade a confession out of me?" Involuntarily, I shudder, and she grins. "But I forgot. Still a faggot." I close my eyes and shake my head, sighing.

"A pleasure as always. Get out, Carol."

Popular posts from this blog

It's Not About the Guns

Fifteen years ago, my mom and I had an interesting discussion about the repercussions of being out. I came out the year before, just before graduating high school, and in the intervening time, had come out to my brother, my grandparents, my co-workers, my friends. Mom and I had danced around the topic a lot, but after my initial coming-out conversations with her, we'd essentially swept it under the rug. When things finally came to a head, I asked her why. Why, of all people, could I not talk to her about this topic?

"Because there are mean people in this world. There are people who will want to hurt you because of who you are, and who you love, and that scares me."

I took a minute to digest this information. "You work at a bank. If someone robs that bank tomorrow, and decides you're not moving fast enough for them, they could shoot and kill you, and it wouldn't matter to them that you are married, or that you have two sons at home. I could be afraid of what …

Waiting by the Door

Trigger warning: bipolar disorder, mania, depression, self-harm
“I’m tired of feeling sad.” He says it as you are both eating breakfast, his expression drained of life. It has been three days of this, and you know, despite what you may be hoping, that it is far from over. It started a couple weeks ago, not with sadness, but what a psychologist calls, “hypomania.”

Talking about Fitness

I am five feet, eight inches tall, and I weigh about 167 pounds. I have a gym membership which I have used a total of once in the past six months, and I don't eat particularly well, nor particularly consistently. I drink fairly regularly, and in December I even started smoking cigarettes (I know, I know). All things considered, I am in pretty good shape, for a 30-year-old man who does nothing to take care of his body. The funny thing is, any time I start to talk about changing my habits for the better, I almost universally get the same responses. "Ugh. Like you need to lose any weight." "Oh, you look fine. What are you worried about?" "You know, if you start working out, you're not necessarily going to weigh less, because muscle weighs more than fat."

Okay, guys. It seems there are a few things I need to explain about my mentality here.