Read Online A Toast to Starry Nights by Mandi Rei Serra - Free Book Online
Authors: Mandi Rei Serra
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all ears.
Chapter Seven-
In my attempt not to be the harpy Jet
accused me of being, I sought what I hoped would be an appreciated gesture of
repentance for Dmitri. There wasn't much time to prepare... Dmitri would be
home from work at about six-fifteen... and here it was almost quarter to five.
My pillar candle stash got raided.
Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's Day, Smelly-Good and Oh-Pretty! Designs were
all made into romantic gesture fodder. Tealights, too. I aligned the candles to
form a pathway which illuminated the way from the front door to the bedroom
door... and to the stage of my apology for flying off the handle the way I did.
It wasn't appropriate. I felt especially bad upon reflection. As Jet pointed
out in the wonderful way she understates things, I embarrassed not only myself
but him as well during the proposal... then to take it to the next level when
he sought to further my writing ambitions... I yelled like a Jerry Springer
guest. It wasn't cool. Not at all. I felt foolish that Jet had to point out my
waspish mood. She, Queen of the Tart Words, scolded me for sharpening my tongue
on his hide. That was a statement of some magnitude.
Jet requisitioned herself as my
accomplice in accomplishing what I hoped was a romantic moment that made up for
my weak stomach and short fuse. There were no guarantees. After all, last night
was the first time Dmitri slept apart from me ever since we moved in together.
I slept little in our bed that seemed vast without his comforting bulk.
A part of me wanted to go and sit on the
couch and explain myself. The other part stewed that both he and Jet conspired
behind my back and not only took a novel, but raided that particular story and
get me to the church before the end of the decade. However, her wanting to help
with both the novel, and me mending my fences with Dmitri meant a lot. Her
abrasive nature was totally nullified by the secret sweetheart she happened to
be. I could count on Jet to pull off her part of my romantic shenanigan with
her usual flair.
At a quarter after five, she was going
to call Dmitri on his cell. He'd still be out at his shop, or driving to it
from a job site, so he could prepare for tomorrow's agenda. His business as a
building contractor kept him busy on most days. Yet he kept a strict schedule
of starting early to finish early and by five-thirty, he'd be ready to leave
the shop. Here would be Jet's moment to shine. She outlined her plan, and with
the glee in which she spoke made me seriously wonder about her sanity and what
exactly it is she does in her spare time. That woman is diabolical.
A five-gallon bucket would serve as her
cauldron of ice water, three pounds-worth of bacon drippings, masses of fur
from Master Humperdink P. MacFuzzlekins' fuzz brush (Jet's huge Maine Coon Cat
& Manx mix that lays across her lap so she can read aloud to him. A
walking, shedding, meowing nubby-butted-mini-Chewbacca that purrs insanely to
Poe and Palahniuk) the content of her cigar ashtray and mold specimens from the
back of her fridge. That witch's brew would prove to be a bad influence on her
kitchen sink. Dmitri, the sweet guy that he was, would gladly stop by to take a
look and see what could be done. While he was occupied with that god-forsaken
horrific nightmare, I'd have time enough to complete my preparations.
Dinner was a foolproof dish that could
roast for hours in an oven and still be perfect. It was cooking already. I
rigged up a canopy above the bed using a huge wooden embroidery hoop, several
yards of red and purple silks, some length of delicate chain, a picture hanging
kit and a hook screwed into the ceiling. A string of clear tube lights outlined
the bottom of our king size bed. The platform bed of aspen was topped with a
silk quilt I painted. The gold and red Chinese dragon writhed upon a purple
background complimented my exotic endeavor. Plants from the living room,
kitchen, and bathroom were gathered about the bedroom, giving it
Chapter Seven-
In my attempt not to be the harpy Jet
accused me of being, I sought what I hoped would be an appreciated gesture of
repentance for Dmitri. There wasn't much time to prepare... Dmitri would be
home from work at about six-fifteen... and here it was almost quarter to five.
My pillar candle stash got raided.
Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's Day, Smelly-Good and Oh-Pretty! Designs were
all made into romantic gesture fodder. Tealights, too. I aligned the candles to
form a pathway which illuminated the way from the front door to the bedroom
door... and to the stage of my apology for flying off the handle the way I did.
It wasn't appropriate. I felt especially bad upon reflection. As Jet pointed
out in the wonderful way she understates things, I embarrassed not only myself
but him as well during the proposal... then to take it to the next level when
he sought to further my writing ambitions... I yelled like a Jerry Springer
guest. It wasn't cool. Not at all. I felt foolish that Jet had to point out my
waspish mood. She, Queen of the Tart Words, scolded me for sharpening my tongue
on his hide. That was a statement of some magnitude.
Jet requisitioned herself as my
accomplice in accomplishing what I hoped was a romantic moment that made up for
my weak stomach and short fuse. There were no guarantees. After all, last night
was the first time Dmitri slept apart from me ever since we moved in together.
I slept little in our bed that seemed vast without his comforting bulk.
A part of me wanted to go and sit on the
couch and explain myself. The other part stewed that both he and Jet conspired
behind my back and not only took a novel, but raided that particular story and
get me to the church before the end of the decade. However, her wanting to help
with both the novel, and me mending my fences with Dmitri meant a lot. Her
abrasive nature was totally nullified by the secret sweetheart she happened to
be. I could count on Jet to pull off her part of my romantic shenanigan with
her usual flair.
At a quarter after five, she was going
to call Dmitri on his cell. He'd still be out at his shop, or driving to it
from a job site, so he could prepare for tomorrow's agenda. His business as a
building contractor kept him busy on most days. Yet he kept a strict schedule
of starting early to finish early and by five-thirty, he'd be ready to leave
the shop. Here would be Jet's moment to shine. She outlined her plan, and with
the glee in which she spoke made me seriously wonder about her sanity and what
exactly it is she does in her spare time. That woman is diabolical.
A five-gallon bucket would serve as her
cauldron of ice water, three pounds-worth of bacon drippings, masses of fur
from Master Humperdink P. MacFuzzlekins' fuzz brush (Jet's huge Maine Coon Cat
& Manx mix that lays across her lap so she can read aloud to him. A
walking, shedding, meowing nubby-butted-mini-Chewbacca that purrs insanely to
Poe and Palahniuk) the content of her cigar ashtray and mold specimens from the
back of her fridge. That witch's brew would prove to be a bad influence on her
kitchen sink. Dmitri, the sweet guy that he was, would gladly stop by to take a
look and see what could be done. While he was occupied with that god-forsaken
horrific nightmare, I'd have time enough to complete my preparations.
Dinner was a foolproof dish that could
roast for hours in an oven and still be perfect. It was cooking already. I
rigged up a canopy above the bed using a huge wooden embroidery hoop, several
yards of red and purple silks, some length of delicate chain, a picture hanging
kit and a hook screwed into the ceiling. A string of clear tube lights outlined
the bottom of our king size bed. The platform bed of aspen was topped with a
silk quilt I painted. The gold and red Chinese dragon writhed upon a purple
background complimented my exotic endeavor. Plants from the living room,
kitchen, and bathroom were gathered about the bedroom, giving it
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