“Yeah, the marmot’s a little shaggy. So what? No skin off your ass.” Harold kicked the can down the road, glaring at Rhonda all the while.
“You are rude. The marmot needs a clipping ASAP and you don’t even care.” Rhonda flushed with righteous indignation, the color of kool aid. She fixed her vision on the can Harold was kicking.
“As I’ve said a hundred times, the marmot is fine. End of story.” The can was getting quite dented, a standard aluminum soda can that doesn’t have the protection necessary to shield from foot contact.
“This isn’t a story. What is this la-la land you inhabit?” She was still transfixed on the can and getting rather tormented by the fact that this narrative could indeed morph into an epic tale the world has never yet seen.
“Everything’s a story. Most of them get lost because nobody wrote them down.” He stopped kicking the can and looked at Rhonda. “I don’t have a pen.”
“So now what do we do? Find a pen? That would make a great story.”
Harold had the look of a toddler who just learned his first swear word. “You’re right.”
“We’re making a story now? I thought we were just kicking that can!” Gesturing to the can with her left hand, Rhonda choked back tears (fake or genuine, she wasn’t sure), hoping to get out of another half-baked idea that Harold always seemed to be coming up with these days.
WHARVED 