NOIR

Try to Be Sober

Yeah, right

If looks could kill, they would have hired Brad Pitt, not me. I’m ugly, dirty, and stinky, but I get the job done. It doesn’t matter if I have to take the subway downtown or uptown; I don’t mind. I fit anywhere. Except for upper east town, my ex lives there, and he made it clear he would kill me if I were to set foot on his turf again.

“Meet me home before noon. Try to be sober. Signed: Your Ex” — italic his, bolding mine. I’m the bold one in this dead relationship.

That’s something I hadn’t expected. The week was shitty enough already. My Lagavulin stash had come to an end on Monday — when I needed it the most, and now, still Monday, the Ex wanted to meet. And he wanted me sober — what a joke. Sober me and my Ex didn’t go hand in hand; more hand slapped on his cute face.

Guess he misses my booty. That’s something I have for me, my ass. I work it off every day.

He doesn’t answer the buzzer, as usual. I still remember the code, 0923, we used to celebrate it. Every day, no matter what, we would have a drink at 9:23 AM and PM. These were the bad times, not the worst. The elevator is still dead, of course.

He doesn’t answer the bell, I enter, and he’s lying on the floor, arms, and legs at weird angles, doing his most demanding yoga routine. Something must be very wrong.

“I don’t know why I still answer your calls, but here I am. What happened?”

“Mom was kidnapped.”

The only thing I always liked in him, his mother, the sassiness incarnated.

End of part 1.

This was my noir response to the niche down prompt. Writing it, I tried to think like Rocky Shores.

On a promotional note, have you heard of the Smillew Writers Challenge? It has some great categories like Life, Meta, Mud, and Undies. The best part? There’s nothing to win.