Rochester’s gamble looked like it was going to pay off; the girl was walking toward the alley where she would, with any luck, meet her doom. He peered at the screen intently, waiting on the edge of his seat, without the slightest tinge of remorse to mar his heartless soul.
The girl stopped, and so did Rochester’s heart. She cocked her head to the side, as though listening to someone who wasn’t there. He ground his teeth in frustration as he watched her kneel to pluck a daisy from a crack in the sidewalk. That’s just so like her, he thought. Never keeping on task when there’s a bit of fuzz to distract her.
Rochester breath whistled in and out between the heavy hairs lining his nostrils as he played the waiting game. Will she or won’t she? Come on already!
He lashed out, kicking a filing cabinet into the wall as she stood back up and turned around. Rochester’s sweaty hamfists pummeled the desk, and the slip of a girl went on about her day, thoughts of butterflies and flowers babbling through her brain, never knowing how close she had come to dismemberment.
Teresa stood on her tippy-toes to peer out of the small basement window placed so close to the ceiling. No sign of rain, yet.
She turned back to finish organizing the books on the newly built shelving, humming absentmindedly to herself. Some mishmash of three or four different showtunes, the same odd tune she always hummed when she was working.
One of the books felt different under her fingers ash she pulled it from its cardboard home. She paused and glanced down, flipping the book to have a look at the front cover. Smiling to herself, she took a step backwards and reached behind her for the arm of the recliner that she knew was there.
Once settled, she put her feet up and cracked the book open. She lost herself in the old childhood favorite for hours, and by the time she closed the back cover with a sigh, it was pouring down rain outside.
She gasped in shock, and quickly checked her watch. Sure enough, more than three hours had passed while she was reading, oblivious to the outside world.
She took a look around at the half dozen boxes of books still resting peacefully in front of the mostly-empty shelves. The rest would have to wait until tomorrow; right now, it was time for her to go pick Todd up from work. She checked her watch again, and grimaced It was going to be close.
She kicked the footrest down and got out of the recliner. Rubbing her finger against the spine of the book, she briefly pondered what to do with it, where to put it so it wouldn’t be lost again, before settling on the top shelf, all by itself, at least for now.
She kissed the tips of her fingers and waved a fond goodbye to the boxes and shelved books before turned toward the stairs with a sigh of regret. Parting was such sweet sorrow.
I like to think of it as a chain of thought rather than a train of thought. My trains always seem to derail. Chains are stronger. I do sometimes think my links are a bit unusual.
Mostly after conversations like this:
About remembering 1531…
Me: Oh, that’s easy to remember! It’s just like our phone number when we first moved to Bossier! (1540)
DH: What? How does that work?
Me: It just does. (I eventually explained it out on paper, but I’ve never met someone who just got things like this, without thinking about it. Even my sister, with her Ph.D. in math, doesn’t ‘do’ numbers like I do.)
Or this, about remembering codes for gated communities…
DH: What’s the gate code for Rosedale?
Me: It’s Christmas Eve eve.
Or remembering phone numbers…
Me: His cell phone number is easy, it’s the mall.
I was in pizza delivery for eight years, numbers and places are readily interchangeable. Especially since I delivered on an air force base, where the buildings are numbered and street addressed.
Maybe it’s just some mnemonic device I created for myself that has nothing to do with how my chain of thought works, but they seem so related to me sometimes.
I’m constantly playing a pseudo-game of six degrees of separation in my head. I can’t help it. It just happens. I’ll demonstrate. I asked my darling husband for a random word. And he picked…
Which, unfortunately, makes me think of my brother right off. And that opens a whole can of worms that I never even saw coming. I’m actually considering asking for a new word, but no. I’ll take what I got.
So. Delinquent. My brother. Who, at 13, was busted for growing pot in an upstairs room at our parents’ house. Which leads me to the first time I smoked pot, with a high school buddy of mine. Who was just as scared of X-Files as I was. I was mighty scared of el chupacabra. Not as much as I am of, say, Bigfoot and aliens.
I think because of this: Once, when I was four, I was riding in the car one night because sometimes that was the only way my sister would get to sleep, my mom asked me if I thought there was anyone else out there, as she looked at the sky. I had never considered this before. I’d been reading for two years by then, so it was a possibility, but I’d never thought about it. And just from the little bit of the world that I’d experienced so far, I was afraid. I was afraid because people are so cruel to each other, of course they’d be just as cruel to strangers from the sky. And what if they didn’t like it? What could happen to us then? To this day I can’t watch Fire In The Sky in the dark. Even Men in Black gives me some mild heebie jeebies.
So delinquent makes me think of xenophobia. And that was the journey.
Somehow this post didn’t come out quite as I intended, but then, they rarely do. That’s why I try not to intend, because I never know where I’m going to lead myself.
Do you ever wonder how your chains of thought compare to everyone else’s? Anybody else ever get called ‘Rain Man?’