by Jeff Strand
***
I LAY ON ROGER’S couch, unable to get comfortable. His couch sucked. Quite frankly, his apartment sucked, too. He needed to just move in with Samantha already. She had a much nicer place.
His cat, Reverse Snowflake, jumped up onto my chest and began to lick my face. “Your cat has very foul breath,” I informed Roger as he walked into the living room.
“That’s only because he pukes a lot.”
I sat up and Roger sat down on the couch next to me. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Middle of the night.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Samantha told me all about what happened in the back of the semi.”
“You mean when I took off my pants?”
“No, when you wouldn’t leave without her.”
“Oh, that. I was drunk.”
“It means a lot to me. I’m serious.”
“You would’ve done the same for Helen.”
“Yeah, I probably would have. So I guess we’re even.” He grinned. “Anyway, thanks for getting her out of there.”
“No problem.”
“So is it okay if she hangs out with us at the Java Joint next Wednesday?”
“Sure.”
“I’m kidding, Andrew.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Get some sleep.”
“I will.”
I lay back down and closed my eyes. I still couldn’t sleep, so I pushed the cat away, got up, found a notebook, and started writing.
And now I’m just about done.
It felt good to write this all down, but I’m not sure I want anybody to read it, except for Helen, who filled in some of the gaps.
I’m going to lock it away with instructions not to publish it until after I’m dead.
Or maybe I’ll publish it after I get a happier ending.
So if you’re reading these words… well, let’s pretend it’s the latter. I’m feeling optimistic.
Epilogue
HELEN AND I GAZED at the sonogram monitor, which featured bizarre shapes that looked like nothing identifiable as a human or even alien child. The sight brought tears to our eyes anyway.
She’d taken a beating, but she hadn’t lost the baby. She was one strong mother and she was going to have one strong kid.
“Is it a boy or girl?” Helen asked.
The doctor smiled. “Both.”
My eyes widened. “Oh my God! The kid’s a hermaphrodite?”
Helen laughed and playfully swatted my arm. “No, you goof. He means we’re having twins.” The realization of that fact sunk in and her voice became somewhat less chipper. “Twins.”
“Actually, no,” said the doctor. “Triplets.”
Helen swatted my arm again. This time it wasn’t quite as playful.
Jeff Strand
Jeff Strand grew up in Alaska, where his parents insist that he had a normal childhood, no matter what you might think after reading his novels. His outrageously warped books include Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, How to Rescue a Dead Princess, Elrod McBugle on the Loose, and Out of Whack.
He’s a past President of the Electronically Published Internet Connection, an international organization of professional authors, which he rules with an iron fist and a wooden paddle. He’s also “host for life” of the annual EPPIES awards banquet, which gives him the opportunity to act goofy in front of a large audience and wear a tuxedo, not necessarily in that order.
Jeff lives in Tampa, Florida with one wife and one mentally questionable cat. In his day job he’s a remittance processing analyst, which is even more exciting than it sounds.
***
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Document creation date: 29.09.2009
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