The Problems with Company

       Twas not her general frustration at him being in the room that drove her to silence, moreover, it was the fact that whenever she was in the living room, attempting to concentrate, that he would appear. With the need to talk, or have his back cracked, he would show his face at the most impromptu times, causing her to forget exactly what needed to be scribbled down on page, letting those few thoughts she had momentarily held vanish, floating once again out of grasp.

       And he talks about his cars. They are his children. Metallic hunks that run on gasoline. She would not mind so much, so long as he didn't look too closely under the couch she was sitting on and discover the small bowl of goldfish crackers she had been munching on just prior to his entering the room. Food outside of the kitchen was illegal of course, unless you were over forty. What a silly rule that was though, for people who knew how to feed themselves since they were children. But heaven forbid common sense made any impression on this man. He was a tyrant, possibly unknowing, but a tyrant all the same. It was frustrating to no end, but only one more year, one more year and then she would be gone in a cloud of dust, somewhere far over the horizon, where she would not have to deal with his dictatorship any longer.

       It would be nice.

       Until then, she would continue to type out her thoughts, verbatim, while he sat there on the family room floor, oblivious to the silence she was giving him.
Or until her laptop battery ran out. Whichever.

       But hark! Look! The dragon sleeps! With quick and quiet fingers, she relieves the small bowl from its hiding place under the couch and, with laptop in hand, flees. Upstairs she runs, silent, to the safety of her room. Downing the remaining fishies with one crunch, she plugs in her beloved laptop, returning to her make believe world of letters as she readies herself at the keys.

       Victory.

       It tastes like cheddar cheese.