Right Number, Wrong Man
Buzzard rotated the shower faucet handle counter-clockwise. Warm then hot water sputtered out as he drew the layered shower curtain closed. He lowered the salmon-colored toilet seat cover, sat and dialed Sweetie on his cell phone. “Baby, why’d you slap me last night? I thought we were good.”
Sweetie, slow to respond, clucked her tongue. “We were good till your crazy bitch wife showed up at my salon.”
“I warned you she’s coo-coo.” Buzzard smothered a smirk. “That’s why I’m with you, Baby.”
“She pulled a gun, chased all my customers away. No one’s returning my calls to reschedule.”
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He snorted. “Now you see what I’ve been dealing with all these years.”
“Buzzard, you’re stringin’ me along. You don’t intend on leavin’ her, do ya?”
“Sweetie, you gotta be patient.” He reached behind the curtain, adjusted the water temperature to cold. With his shirt sleeve, he wiped condensation off the mirror and admired what he saw at age 50. “She’s still the mother of Buzzard, Jr.”
Silence intervened before Sweetie continued. “Buzzard, Jr. is 30 damn years old.”
“Baby, wait. I’m consulting my cousin the lawyer.”
Sweetie sighed. “I thought you said he failed the bar.”
“He’s family though and comes real cheap.” Buzzard inspected his profile in the mirror.
