More Spanish Trace

Here's more of "Spanish Trace." Thanks for reading!

Tina made no move to leave, just lifted her split-end ridden mass of hair off her neck and smiled. I felt like saying, Babe, try some V05 Hot Oil treatment, but it was that kind of astute observation that had gotten me into a lot of hurt.

"I'd better close up before I start to suffer," I said. I pointed at the sun with my free hand.

"Okay," she said. "Okay."

I'd been living at the Spanish Trace Apartments for exactly two months. My second wife, Lori, had kicked me out of the house and this is where I landed. When I walked into the complex office and saw the wood paneling and some stale ho-hos that said, 50 cents a piece and a sign that said, If you steal, God KNOWS, I understood that this was not a good place to be. A tight bitter woman named Jerri worked as the manager, one of those efficient old bats who wears Keds and hates anyone the least bit rowdy. Women like her had been busting my ass for years, so I was careful with the yes ma'am, no ma'am stuff, part of my new dysa (don't show your ass) policy. I knew my credit was shaky, my looks off-putting, but this wasn't the fricking Trump Tower either. After I filled out the application forms, Jerri put up a "back in five minutes" sign with a clock and showed me to the vacancy.

"This is it," Jerri said. "I can sell you the blinds with it."

I didn't say anything, just looked around at the one closet and the carpet with burn marks. I hoped that I had taken enough money out of the bank account to cover everything. Lori had been making most of the money at home, not a small point of contention between us.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
"The military values victory. It does not value prolonging." Sun Tzu

Cocktail Hour
Drinking suggestion: Dr. Pepper (God's elixir)

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Friday! More of the story to come on Saturday!