Written for Trifecta Writing Challenge: Week Eighty-Eight.
I’d like to slap Margie’s cow-eyed face, but watching her grovel is fun, so I stir my coffee and wait, eyes down. If I look aat her, I’m going to start laughing.
“Connie,” she says, voice wobbly and ingratiating at the same time, “I wouldn’t ask if it was for me or my kids, you know that.”
I do. Last time she asked me for something I shot her down cold. A loan, she’d said, to pay her son’s tuition. Let him grow up as ignorant as you, I’d said. What’s it to me? I don’t know why she thinks I’ll care any more about my brother. Our brother.
“You guys can’t keep coming to me with your hands out whenever you’re in financial crisis, Margie.”
She draws in a gaspy breath, high and thin, like she’s sucking on helium, and I almost expect her voice to come out like Mickey Mouse, but it’s her usual simper.
“Connie, he’s got enough money for this month’s rent, and then they’ll be on the street. Come on, we’re a family. Families band together when shitty things happen, don’t they?”
I meet her gaze full on, and she holds eye contact. Finally growing some nads after all these years. “He should have thought about that before he screwed up his job, shouldn’t he?”
“God, that’s so unfair! He didn’t screw up, he was laid off, and you know it.”
I shrug, slurp back a mouthful of the sludge she calls coffee.
“You know what, Margie?” I say. “Where were you guys when Petey died? Neither of you gave a rat’s bumhole that I’d just lost the best friend I ever had.”
It’s kind of hilarious watching her struggle to suck back the outrage. Truth be told I couldn’t have been happier when I found that fucking parakeet feet up in his cage. As she well knows.
“How much?” I ask.
They’re not getting one stinking cent, but it’s a gas seeing her face spark with hope.