Over The Obituary

On to the next one...

Word: 5660

“Hey babe.”
Two words in six months. Mark jumped right up.
But he didn’t quite know what to say.
There was a minute or two of silence.
“Is it the Indians’ summer there? Your face is blowing up from all those tropical trees on your shirt jajaja.”
Casia was back.
“It’s called Indian summer, babe. And yes, it’s the end of September so we are having some heat. Do you like the fire?”
Mark inserted a fire emoji in the hopes of emphasizing his vitality.
But there was no response. Probably just a fluke, he thought.
Mark returned his attention to the lab. He had been working there as a research assistant for a few years, something safely secured upon his undergraduate completion, thanks to a connection his old buddy John had with a family member in Jersey. He didn’t know who the good man was specifically, but it was on his word through local connections that Mark had managed to relocate and really “live the life.” That meant New York City. Astoria, Queens specifically. He was making inroads in the lab on a promising new medicine, something that might really cut down on the Alzheimer’s endemic, and so he lived rather comfortably. Enough to not feel guilty about burning half his income on his massive flat, with open air ceilings and grandiose windows.
He lived in a restored factory building and its hollowness rang true for him; often times he could swear that he heard his own thoughts echo in lonesome eternity against his padded, brick walls. Maybe I can do something with this place, he had been thinking all those years. He never would.
It was Tuesday night, so therefore it was trivia night. Mark and Zil had been at this for well over a couple of years and they sometimes placed OK, but Mark had to admit that his knowledge base tended to only dwell in the material sciences. Zil really offered up answers on maybe an abstract philosopher here or there, so it was safe to say that the night was more about getting out than competing.
Zil was on his fifth beer already, and perhaps his second or third trip to the gentleman’s room. He held his liquor. He held his liquor pretty well in fact, but from Mark’s point of view he only saw a shut down soul. Dramatic, huh? In his sober moments, Zil was thoughtful, mildly funny, and certainly had stuff to say. That was how it often was when he had moved out to Astoria. They kind of clicked over their shared melancholy and self-indulgent musings. But that had been some years ago, now. He wasn’t sure if Zil had been sober in front of him in quite some time. Added on top of that, Zil wasn’t endowed with great height. At 5’1, 118 lbs and with shaggy hair drooping over his eyes, Mark looked like the next GQ model. Barely 5’7, with a razor sharp beard, and brown, inquisitive eyes, he was your average looking dude, with enough quiet kindness to exude a subtle charm.
“How’s your week been, Zil?”
“Oh, you know. Same old. Nothing new really.”
“Nice! I love it, man. I love it,” Mark’s teasing kept him afloat in these conversations.
But even Zil knew sometimes Mark was that great friend who really did care. In a rare moment, he opened up:
“Well, the game is progressing. We’re doing beta testing right now. Tricky thing is balancing out the individual capacities of each alien race’s armies. Balance is key.”
That commentary alone was all Mark could have asked for. If Zil didn’t say another word the whole night, and it’s possible he wouldn’t, he had his solace knowing that maybe they had some semblance of connection with each other. But, then again, there were the silences between rounds. Not a word to say to each other. Neither of them even enjoyed sports enough to make meaningless exchange. So it was on the weekly basis of this tag-team efforts at intellectual dominion.
Whatever it was, maybe the MidWesterner in him, but Mark had never been able to strike up any friendships outside of his with Zil. Was New York really that hardened? It was a question he seldom contemplated. His lot was here now, and he still deemed it relatively good.
He had managed to date a native New Yorker for about three months. Now that was probably the highlight of his stay in the big city so far. Her name was Rosalia, and he knew from the get-go that she was out of his league. Drop-dead gorgeous, by his standards, with long, thick black silk hair running down her back, and with abundant curves. But alas, it was short-lived. She said she had found someone and that they could continue as friends. He wrote her off as a document-hungry immigrant at that point. Not a judgment he’d casually pass, but he often wondered if he had just lost any long-term utility to his former lady. When he reviewed with Zil, he received the following consolation, “you wanna watch me game tonight?”
Just as the third round was beginning, and Zil was engaging at least drink number six or seven, Mark heard a ‘ping’ on his phone. It was Casia messaging him.
“I want to see you tonight. Is it possible?” (Casia)
“Well duder, I’m going to take this call with Casia. She sounds pretty hot under the collar to be in touch with me. You know how it goes…”
Mark attempted a slight vocal posture to suggest his status as the guilty party, to express guilt at bailing on trivia, and as though this were the one and only conversation that he cared for and was absorbed in. Mularkey, of course. Zil read his true intentions, if he cared to, and just lightly snorted out his right nostril. It was as if he had done some bad coke. Mark raised his hand in indignation.
“Something funny here, Zil?”
“Oh no, it was my drink, it went down the wrong way. I want you to have a good time,” he said flatly, “you let me know how your chatting goes.”
“Video chatting,” Mark sternly corrected.

“Alright, Zil. I’m glad that you’re sitting. I have some exciting news that I’d like to share.”
It was next week’s trivia night, and the two were at it again. Truthfully, Mark had been dreading this night. While he might call Zil one of his “good” friends (he was his only friend), he had the nagging feeling that this conversation was going to drain him of all his excitement and joy. But what? Am I gonna tell nobody?, he thought.
“Yes. What are you up to?”
Always with these abstract, detached questions, Mark thought. Zil tended to emote…almost nothing.
“Well, you know that I’ve been talking with Casia and all that. It’s been like six months already. And we are doing OK, ya know? I like her. I think she likes me.”
“I faintly recall you mentioning it.”
Mark, always the calm, cool operator tried to ignore that swipe. It wasn’t a mention, this was his passion the last half year. So, he gave him his look. Nothing close to a death stare, but an inquisitive, questioning, somewhat heavy stare.
“I just had a couple of drinks you’ll have to excuse me.”
Mark acted as though nothing had happened.
“That’s true. No, you remember Casia – we matched?”
“Yes! She was eager to meet with you.”
“Yea! It’s true. And honestly I’ve been starting to get real eager to meet with her, too.” Mark paused a second. Almost as if his next question contained a gravitas that Zil might want to prepare for. “You know where she lives, right? Did I tell you about that?”
“Yeah she lives three miles west of where we played tennis that one time.”
“Ok…a couple drinks here, a pound of weed there? Have you been high haha. Hm, unless I was kidding about where she lived. No, Zil. Costa. Rica.”
“Must’ve been because you know how I only call when I’m high. I hear its nice weather at the moment.”
“Yea, right, well, I booked flights there last night man. It’s been decided. And, Casia, she’s giving me three nights.”
“Fun. Follatio, dude. Is that what you’re going for?”
“Now I didn’t see that on the menu, but I mean to say that she’s going to take care of me. Well, those were her words anyway.”
“Well it’s been a minute for you, huh? Good things come to those who wait. Happy to hear, my friend.”
“You know what it means to me, Zil. So, yeah, can you keep an eye on my place, then? The usual will do.”
“Feed the fish, water Norbert, and keep that Mrs. Jenkins out of the toilet paper supply. You got it.”
“Haha, alright, my friend. I’ll Skype you when I’m there.”

Rain season. Goddamit how did I not research this stuff before? But sure enough, he was dampened in spirit for just a brief minute before his travel van arrived. A Manuel briefly, but warmly greeted him in broken English and Mark was off to the races.
He had decided to spend one night at a hotel. He wanted to clear his mind and clean up before the big encounter. The hotel was certainly more than that: it was a spread out luxury resort – beachside available, three pools, six bars, and seven restaurant choices. Mark already felt good.
After checking in and dropping off his stuff, he immediately got into his bathing suit, ordered a pina colada, and sat placidly at the beach. He looked out at the horizon, unsure if he were seeing the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean. It was a time to rise and shine, as it were, and he was settling into the challenge just fine.
Another four drinks later, and a three hour cat nap, Mark decided to watch the sunset at the jacuzzi. A bald, stout man entered, probably about 53, carrying what had to be a triple whiskey. So the night was going to be, Mark thought to himself, I better drink up. And after a quick smirk at his comrade, he exited briefly and ordered himself the same drink.
“It’s cold to be a jacuzzi, eh, ese?” the man asked.
“Oh I don’t know, I was out in the sun all day, this temperature is about as much as I can handle.”
The man briskly laughed, appreciating Mark’s subtle self-deprecation. Most Americans were haughty, so he thought, but this one he was not.
“Where are you from?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Ah me, well I grew up in the MidWest. Raised practically on a farm. But I moved out to the city five years ago and have never looked back…,” “I’m an American,” he added.
“I see. Mi amigo. And do you think your country is the best on the planet? The golden egg or something like that?”
“I like America. I think we are good people that are trying to help the world. I don’t care about being the best or not. That doesn’t matter to me.”
“You sort of dodge my question, I see. Well, nevermind, just a curiosity of mine.” The man stroked his beard, rubbed his bald head twice, and dunked his head in the water. “That is the feeling I wanted,” he said as he emerged, “some feeling of encasement of the warmth of the water. It is purifying my friend. It will clean your mind. And maybe help your soul,” he chuckled.
Mark had been with his new friend for at least forty minutes, and he had made considerable progress on his drink. Maybe a shot left, tops. He quickly downed another sip/gulp, and stared at the man.
“You mean to say I put my face down into this jacuzzi and I will be healed? Now how do you mean?”
“Ay…caramba, it was a joke my young friend. Just a joke. We all carry our sins, I’m no different than the next man. I pray I can wash them away somehow and someway. It’s to keep me sane that I believe these things.”
“Got you,” Mark replied as he finished the drink.
You want another?

Mark scrambled the next morning, mostly just putting away hygiene supplies so he might catch breakfast and hop on the shuttle to Casia’s. His head was pounding; whiskey always did that to him. He couldn’t remember much after his head submersion into the water, but he smiled beside himself. He had screamed that he was the new king of the jungle, as the tropical birds awoke within the trees to cackle and hoot and cheer him on. He had vague impressions of a night time show with a Michael Jackson impersonator, a cyborg embodied by a human, and seriously heavy debates over the merits and contributions of Oasis and Pink Floyd. He thanked God for any semblances of memories he carried. The feeling within him was good.
His room phone called to tell him that his chauffer was there. Mark put down the phone and felt in his pocket to find a baggy of dank, dark green weed. And it registered. He had spent the night with some regional drug dealer most likely. He didn’t recall ever being pressed to buy anything insane. In fact, it might have even been him whom had broached the subject to this man. Whatever, he thought, I’ll count my blessings. And as he finished his j, he walked to the shuttle with nothing but appreciation for his Costa Rican vacation.

As Mark arrived at his destination (Casa de Casia), he whipped out his phone to shoot Zil a quick message. “Hey dude, got trashed last night. Talked Oasis. You mighta liked it.” And he breathed deeply. He wanted to feel serenity, but his wicked heart started tugging all of its ropes, knotting them in insurmountable clumps.
“You got this.” texted Zil.
Well, at least he reads my texts, Mark thought. I could call him, hm, you know? Would he even pick up? It’s Sunday morning. What the hell else will he be doing? So, he hit to FaceTime to see his friend Zil. Ring ring. Ring ring. And then the call cut. Mark scrambled, shocked, he always kept up with technology and never thought he’d not have signal. But that was it. He was out. He could talk to Casia about the topic, he figured.
His driver took the van through the gateway and Mark soon found himself alighting from the vehicle. Surrounding him, first of all, was a serious perimeter or metal fencing, with barbed wire attached at the top. They looked unharmed, so it might have been safe to say no one had ever attempted an entrance. Or, it could be said that no one had ever successfully escaped, either. Mark let the thought go as he shuddered slightly. His clothes were drenched from the morning’s storm and he so desperately regretted his lack of a poncho. He wasn’t sure what Cassia would think of his drenched appearance.
Fortunately, his heart was just the reverse. It danced within him at a gallop. He tried to reign in his sentiment to the trot, but he couldn’t help himself. This was the day. He had travelled, internationally, to meet his woman. They had known each other for what might have felt like a year at that point. Daily texting. Romantic GIFs. Even about ten hour-long video calls debating world politics, and the power of the fart. Oh God she had to be the one.
And if she were? Should he have found her, than what? Would he marry her? Would they have kids? Would they (he) relocate to Costa Rica? What might be of their future? Would they work hard? Were her father a quiet multi-millionaire within the country’s elite? Could this be what he had been waiting for?
He could take his lab experience there, most likely. Or maybe he could be a simple, humble teacher. Work with the youth. Oh and the nights he might start to have on a Friday! He could see life as life. He might just feel the power of his own youth and vitality once more. It was the sort of feeling he might take away from a real good rock concert. The kinds you only see once or twice a decade. And this is life, he thought.
Knock knock knock.
“Marrrk, is it you? I come now! Wait one minute.”
This was it. What Mark had waited for. He took three deep breaths, and the door opened. He was flabbergasted.
Before him was the pleasant, seductive visage he had remembered from his videos. Dark, protruding eyebrows, a delicate, but abundant and round nose, fat, thick lips, regal, long black satin hair, and a penetrating smile, ever so slightly formed. Yes, that was the gorgeous lady he had remembered from his conversations. What followed suit…not so much.
As he stared down her face to the neck, and torso, he held in a choke as he saw her hands gripped on two three feet long metallic wheels. Casia lived in a fucking wheelchair.
“Well, heellloooooo!!!” she giggled and shouted loudly. She started fist pumping in the most unusual manner possible.
“Uh, hello,” Mark replied sheepishly. “How are you?”
“Take your sleep, bebe, we talk later.”
The alarm erupted abruptly. Mark had bookended his “rest” with two or three hours of restless shifting, granting him about thirty or so minutes of any actual unconscious activity. He didn’t pay it much heed, but he wondered if today would be any different. Perhaps yesterday was the nightmare. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Or maybe this was a practical joke from Zil somehow? No, he never knew about this until the flights were booked. Hm…
Suddenly a slamming on the door. *pound pound pound.* “Bueno bias, mi amor!!” cackled Casia. Doesn’t she have a more demure method, he thought to himself. Couldn’t she have sent a servant? They actually seem more trapped than me…
Mark sprung up in the bed like a corpse rising from the dead, and onto an almost damp, wooden floor. “Must be the humidity,” he thought. As the Casia had insisted on washing all Mark’s clothes upon his arrival (a ‘no’ was never an option), he was stuck in soaked clothes. He had been sweating most of the night and he wasn’t sure if that was the weather or what have you. He immediately wanted to get some socks on, the feeling of the floor disturbed him, but before he could give it much more thought he saw an iguana cross the ceiling. This time, he jolted, and was out of the bed faster than a soldier dodging a bullet. With his button down, black and white striped Calvin Klein now in wrinkles, he felt the fool. The whole situation wreaked of desperation.
As he looked in the mirror, he saw his once perfectly groomed hair even worse off than it was yesterday. He rubbed his temples; he had a hangover that was worse than any that could be alcohol-induced. One might call it jet lag, he supposed, and it made him feel 20 years older. He decided he might pump himself back up with some push-up sets. And funnily enough, he did manage getting into low double-digits. “Still got it?” he thought to himself, “no, not really.” Despite his proclivity for quiet activity, there was a gym goer in him, at one point he lifted at least three – four times a week. Now, he was no Arnold, but it had calmed him down many times throughout his brief stay at graduate school.
He wasn’t sure what options were left for him inside the room at that point. He wasn’t hungry, and yet his stomach growled. He wasn’t tired, and yet he found himself blinking twenty times a second to stay awake. Mark started pacing over the moisture, a sensation now compounded by the collective dampness accumulating in his socks. What was he gonna do? *pound pound pound*
“Buenos dias sleepy head!!! Hahahahaha.”
Well, at least one of us feels good, he thought.

“You’re going to stay for a week with me, bebe. This day has been fantastic. When I see you, I see an ocean blue, and I feel the fool. Hehe. You know when I found you, I knew that you would be mine. I just felt it. Thank you bebe.”
It was his first afternoon at the compound. Mark didn’t really know how to respond. Casia started rocking back and forth in her wheelchair, animated and excited.
“Well, thank you Casia,” he said. “You are too kind to me.”
“No, bebe, you are my sweet thing and I love you already.”
Mark nodded his head left, right, and then quickly made sure to keep it straight and center. Before he knew it, the humidity of the sea was causing him to get damp and sweaty, once again.
“You are nervous, my love. And that’s ok. Everything will be ok.”
Casia leaned into him, still in his bed, and as she tried to maternally comfort him, she actually slipped onto him. She was off her rocker. Mark couldn’t help but make that dark joke, because for a second she had become something less of the matron she was trying to convey. Granted, this probably wasn’t her first rodeo in a situation so, Mark opted to stay silent. The whole thing was weird. As she adjusted herself back into the wheelchair, he could have sworn she used her left hand to grip his dick for balance. Was that intentional, he thought? Better not go there, he figured, but he felt violated. He feared this could be one hell of a long stay, but what was he going to do?
“You want our cena, mi amor?” Casia asked.
“Let’s do it,” Mark said, knowing that he probably wouldn’t be able to get even a piece of toast down.

“In the evenings, I usually receive my massage therapists. Oh, but look, Ms. Annabelle is not coming today mi Mark. She said she wants to feed her babies and you know I won’t tell her no…”
Casia sighed, desolate and insecure, while Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry to hear that. Will you be OK?
“Oh, no, not really. Usually my back will cramp up in my first waking hour without the massage. Then my legs can feel so numb as though they will explode. Then my neck is all stiff so I cannot move around to see anything…”
Mark did not know what to say. Casia gazed at him curiously, almost a vacant expression for a second. She sat in silence stroking her stomach and briefly smacked her lips.
“But you are here, Mark! Isn’t that correct?”
“Well, uh, sure. I mean, we made this happen, hehe, didn’t we?,” but Mark knew his comment was just a weak diversion.
“I tell you from that moment that I saw you yesterday, I knew that you might really like me, mi amor. And I see that you are gentle, and sensitive…and that you care about the others. This is the beautiful of you to me.”
“Well, jeez, thanks Casia. I mean, I wanted to see you. We were talking for a while and we can even make each other laugh. It’s so awesome for me to be here.” Mark regained his composure, recognizing that maybe he was ableist – could he not have developed feelings for a woman bound to her wheelchair? If so, so what? Maybe? Even Zil might weigh in on this one, he thought. “Look Casia, I want you to feel good today. I hope you’ll be ok. I’ll support you.”
“Then bring me your butterflies.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘bring me your butterflies, amor.”
“I don’t have any butterflies? I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about.”
“Ahh bueno, mi abuela used to tell me that all the time when I needed healing. She told me she would lend me sus mariposas, or you call them butterflies.”
Mark was failing to see the connection.
“Her hands on my back, and that feeling, it’s like two butterflies fluttering on my body so that I can become a healed woman. Do you know?”
And so Mark stifled his groan. He thought he finally knew where this was going. Now, he had given a massage maybe, once or twice in his life. And hardly at all romantically. But was this meant to be some intimacy, he wondered, or did she just really need the help? He offered a slight chuckle, paused, and looked her in the eye, with a smirk that bordered on fright.
“I have two butterflies right here, Casia,” he said hesitatingly, “maybe I can help.”
“The Hills are aliiiiive, with the sound of muuuusic,” Casia howled gaily, “Lalalala…lalalala, laaaaala.”
“I can see you’re a big fan of The Sound of Music, Casia,” said Mark.
“You call me amor, now, Mark, it’s much better. OK?”
Mark stumbled in his interior. “Well, ok, mi amor.” I mean, what could it hurt to get friendly with her, right? She just offered him to let him touch her all over her body. He figured he should be excited, but something still felt off. It was probably him just stifling his own desires, as per usual. Maybe this was the chance for him to actually get the girl, wheelchair or not.
“You see, bebe, that in the Hispano culture we are very affectionate. So now you are mi amor, mi bebe…mi vida.”
Mark was lost for Spanish so he took the terms on good faith. She can be mi amor, he decided. What could it actually hurt. As his gripped reached her lower back, Mark noticed Casia squirming as if she were experiencing an uncomfortable bliss. Should that be possible. Her eyes sealed shut, her arms gripped his butterflies, and she slammed his hands further, below the hips…to the crotch.
“Now finish, mi amor! Finish and let me feel the relief!”
Mark instinctively jumped back. Partially, he could tell that his amor was in need of a shower, because he felt instantly nauseas as Casia tried to undo her pants. He wanted to wake up from this because he knew it was not what he had signed up for. Granted, maybe this was just the “charming” experience he had been looking for, and he sure as hell knew that he might even get a reaction out of Zil with some of these moments. But. For now? He needed a break.
He managed to convince Cassia to allow him to take a solitary walk. He needed to know where he was. He knew he was confined to the interior of the compound, but was certain he could glean information from his surroundings. What struck him the most was that there were no pictures or painting on the walls besides those of Cassia. Every image hanging was her gawking, mocking, or flipping off the camera. She had a well-endowed tribute to…self.
Aside from that was the vacancy. A big space for a little nobody. What was this all here for, he wondered? What could one woman do with all this space alone? He let that sink in for a while when he noted his stomach growling.
The fact of the matter was that Mark had not touched a thing since that ill-fated meal. He greedily consumed the first glass and made no mention to himself of the slight grainy taste embedded in the drink. Probably just him getting used to the water supply there, he thought.
“Now the other, OK? You have only a minute and then you will be so bad if you do not drink. You know this in your heart, mi vida. You know that I true. So now you drink.”
Even Mark knew with those communication threads that this was his Misery moment. One more sip and he’d probably be her eternal bitch. Oh God, he thought. What have I done? He noticed his body surge slightly, satisfyingly warm. He didn’t dislike it. He found himself on the cusp of mild reverie, as if the drama of the day’s events were slowly dissipating away.
“One more…Now,” she commanded.
But Mark definitely knew better by now. He was relieved that he hadn’t gotten that second glass and, while he did feel slightly disoriented, his faculties were adjusting and he knew he could handle himself. Casia saw this two, and became infuriated.
“Mi amor, I tell you that today you have disappointed me. Today was a disaster. You have been a grouchy grump. Or like that monster on your Sesame Street show maybe? I do not watch it. I invite you here to show you love and tenderness. You only go about yelling or just staring into a nothing. I do not understand your ways. Is this how all the gringos are?”
“Don’t you get it Casia? *I* booked the plane ticket. *I* left New York. *I* travelled to this country and I don’t even speak Spanish. So I come here, I make some good times at the hotel, and I come to this…jeez, compound? For fuck’s say you live in a gated, wired compound. And I have been tolerating your bullshit for way too long and it’s only been not even a complete day. So, if you ask me, you can back off and let me breath, eh?”
“Did you ever consider about me for once, Mark? Did you ever stop to think that this isn’t just *your* big trip to see me? Maybe there are other people involved in this situation. It’s not just all. About. You. Mi amor,” Casia started giggling, “but when you get so angry it can make me feel a certain…hotness, I think…”
Mark stood silent. In fact, his head was spinning. He could not keep up with Casia, nor at this point did he want to. He had considered an “escape” of sorts, which really would have just meant returning to the hotel, but he did feel some desire to assuage the situation. Maybe there was redemption for Casia.
“Look, Casia, what is it that you want here? I am angry. And I don’t like that you like that. I don’t feel good right now. I came here to have fun, maybe even to have some fun with you, and I can’t help but think that every moment between us has been tense and uncomfortable. Do you know what I mean?”
“Do I know what you mean bebe? Hehehe. You are sooo silly sometimes mi amor. Always acting childish maybe. And it’s funny. But. You are a man now, right? No eres nada joven ya. Someday you will be an old man. Do you want to be alone forever…?”
And something about that statement did actually make Mark’s stomach flip. His lonely nights at the chemistry lab. Dead-end conversations with Zil. A stranger in a strange city. Up to this point he had experienced his dreams, his unconscious hours, as the most comforting time of his life. Ever. He had come here to launch the next phase of it all. What the hell went wrong here, he thought? Did I forget to recycle too many times? I mean, just cut me a fucking break. I don’t even want much. Hell, I almost forgot this woman was in a wheelchair!
Casia smiled menacingly at him, cranked her head 45 degrees on her left shoulder, and stuck her tongue out at him almost provocatively, almost playfully, mostly sickeningly.
“I know that you are cranky mi amor. And I know that you are all alone in this life. I take you to bed now and we will talk in the morning about your stay here.”
She inched toward him and caressed his hand, but he immediately pulled away. He wasn’t going to give her any satisfaction.
“No goddamit, I don’t think you understand. You are the most psychotic bitch I have ever met. I want you to go fuck yourself, try to do that in the wheelchair at least, and piss off. I’m out of here. You won’t see me in the morning. Good night.”
“We shall see, mi amor…we shall see…”

The morning arose a few days later, with a bloody sun on the horizon. As Casia rolled herself along the linoleum floors of the compound, she sat down at the breakfast table, with the lushest rays of light beating along the pores of her face. It was another good day to be alive, she sighed. Sometimes pursuits just soared too hot, she thought. What was it for her to decide on the right behavior of a prospective man? Well, this one had come and gone, he had flipped himself off of his prospects. What a fool, too, she thought, attempting the fences. Well, that was her decision made for her. She had kind of liked his nerdy endearing neediness. He didn’t know how to love himself, she concluded.
Casia bit into her toast, scooped up with some juicy red jam, just as she liked and she flipped open the paper. She flipped to the back, where the real news was. Her eyes briefly flashed to a corner story highlighting Mark’s deposed body. “An American corpse was found strewn across the beaches of Vallodolid today. The body was bloated and blue, and an autopsy has revealed a Mark Landey as the owner. He is survived by…”
Yada, yada, yada, Casia thought. It was his fool’s errand. She quickly adjusted course to her favorite section, just over the obituary: “Established American living in Manhattan seeking to sweep a local dame off her feet.” Casia chuckled to herself, “yes, this one will do…” It was time for another morning chore.