This was a mistake and, yet, here I am sitting in George’s little house with its white picket fence, staring at his bookshelves which are totally comprised of photography manuals and science fiction novels. I suspect his goal in life is to take photos of aliens.
“They exist, Jo. I’m telling you!”
Yes, near the end of our relationship desperation seeped in just like life-altering green ooze from one of his favorite movies. I couldn’t abide living in his fantasy world for one moment longer and he was disappointed in what he called my “close-mindedness.”
His front door opens. He strides in with an ethereal blonde who looks like a supermodel. The woman, wearing a cropped black top and low slung white jeans, glides across the room, seeming somehow removed from this planet. But then I suppose most models are.
“Jo meet XoXo,” George says, excitement spilling over.
I stand up, wondering again why I’m here, when suddenly the hand XoXo extends becomes a suction cupped tentacle that grasps my arm. The last thing I hear George say before I lose consciousness: “Poor Jo, maybe you’ll believe now.”
end 10/9/2016 (2)
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