The stranger appeared in the doorway… Well, not a stranger exactly, his name was Andy. We’d met on a few other occasions, for instance when he walked me down the aisle. And it really wasn’t a doorway as much as it was a window. He used it as a doorway sometimes, though, if one of his drunken friends had fallen asleep outside our actual doorway or if he just wanted a quick surge of adrenalin upon leaving our loft.Also, he didn’t appear, really. Andy actually broke out one of the windowpanes with his elbow and reached inside for the door latch. Details became less important after I shot him… that is, until the moment I first met with the police and my attorney. Then he mysteriously became the stranger who appeared in the doorway.
I’d like to continue but I’m far too grief-stricken. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so terrified, waiting up until all hours night after night for my beloved to come home, I would have been able to discern that it wasn’t really a stranger crawling through the window dressed in Andy’s favorite Notre Dame jacket (the hideous blue and gold one he wore every night when he went out). Perhaps not, who knows what the mind is capable of during periods of great emotional upheaval. One thing is certain, however. The Fighting Irish now have one less fan and I have control of the remote on Saturday afternoons during the fall. I could learn to watch golf, I think.
4 comments:
Now this is a plan to die for.
I would have used this a time
or two, but too late now.
Good one.
And to Andy we add a flippant, "Sorry, sorry, sorry..."...[yawn].
Jo: No sympathy for poor Andy, eh? Well, what about for Mrs. Andy, then, a gold medal for marksmanship, maybe?
And you, sweet Kay Lee... I expected more compassion from you...
Tough audience... remind me to talk to my agent.
Never cared for Notre Dame anyhow. That's one way to do it; knocking 'em off one fan at a time. Good story Bob.
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