She lay on the bed and thought about the end of their friendship. Her heart ached.
It wasn’t a clean shot through head or heart, either; it was a slow knife through the stomach, quietly releasing bile and stomach acid. A drunken car ride home. A shamed car ride back.
Blanche Case camouflages herself with a “real job” while plotting to take over the world with artistic endeavors.
For one summer, we were best of friends. Autumn undid us, something in the changing colours, the changing winds.
We hardly spoke during tenth grade. Then June arrived. I hoped, childishly, that the sunlight would reunite us.
Life may move in cycles, but you never cross the same river twice.
A mouse lived inside my walls. I tried to feed it cheese and peanut butter and other tasty things.
“I cannot take your gifts, sir,” it said. “I am afraid you will trap me!”
I convinced it I wouldn’t. We became friends.
A small problem: my rodent-phobic wife found out.
This story is based on a title suggested by @eikoandmog.
Ramone had a very diverse selection of friends. He enjoyed spending time with Havarti, Provolone, Mozzarella, and Brie.
He didn’t get along that well with Cheddar or Feta, but Gouda was fun.
Ramone’s mom told him, “Cheeses can’t be real friends,” but he knew better.
Oh yes, he knew better.