Read Online Fall Semester by Stephanie Fournet - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Fournet
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wondered.
Near the entrance to the convenience store, a young, wiry stray cat, all black, sniffed the garbage can. Malcolm paused, remembering that Ricardo was almost out of food. His hesitation to break his writing streak this weekend had kept him from his usual grocery errand.
When the tank was full, Malcolm headed for the convenience store, hoping that they carried Fancy Feast. The stray mewled pitifully at him as he opened the door. The squat clerk at the register did not look up from her cell phone as he entered, and he passed the displays of Hot Fries and salted peanuts, scanning the shelves.
Malcolm grabbed a couple of cans of 9Lives, imagining Ricardo’s disdain. The register was strategically placed by the case of promised Krispy Krunchy chicken, and he could not help but smile.
“Is that all?” the listless clerk mumbled.
“No. I’d like one chicken strip, please.”
“You want one chicken strip? Not a whole order?” she asked, frowning at him.
“Just one.”
The clerked opened the case, mumbling to herself, grabbed a pair of tongs, drew out a chicken strip that appeared to be simultaneously grease-soaked and dehydrated, and dropped it on a paper tray. Malcolm paid for his purchase and walked out.
The stray beseeched him again as he stepped outside.
“Yes, yes, but over here,” Malcolm reassured the cat, leading him around the corner of the store where he squatted down and slid the chicken strip onto the pavement before the young tom. The stray pounced on it eagerly.
“You’re welcome. Ricardo would insist.”
Malcolm tossed the paper tray into the garbage and went back to his car, smiling at himself.
Amused and relaxed, Malcolm pulled onto St. Mary, heading toward the Saint Streets and turned on the radio. The twiney, British strains of Al Stewart’s “Year of the Cat” met his ears, and he threw his head back in laughter.
He kept laughing as he thought of the confused clerk, the lonely chicken strip, and the image of how he must have looked, talking to and feeding a stray cat. He laughed at himself laughing as he drove through campus and crossed Johnston Street, feeling slightly hysterical.
He finally caught his breath and wiped tears from his eyes as he passed Olde Tyme Grocery with its never-ending line at the snow cone window. He was approaching the intersection of St. Mary and St. Landry, slowing with the traffic, when a figure on the sidewalk caught his eye. A jogger. With a French braid that swung like a pendulum as she ran. Malcolm’s breath hitched when he recognized Maren Gardner. Toned runner’s calves pumped her lean legs. The braid swayed above compact hips and a narrow waist. Sweat had soaked through her sports tank and glistened on her tan shoulders.
Malcolm wrenched his eyes from her just as he passed her, but they found her again in the rearview mirror as he crossed St. Landry. He caught her as she dragged a wristband across her forehead, a look of transcendence on her face. Cheeks flushed. Mouth open. Malcolm sped away, perturbed to find that he was rock hard.
Holy shit.
He switched the radio to NPR and listened to Robert Siegel introduce a story about Pakistani slums. He concentrated on the story and its central figure, a questionable politician who was being compared to Tony Soprano. When he reached St. Patrick Street and pulled into his driveway, Malcolm stepped out of the car and felt the heat of the afternoon.
Sweat. Flushed cheeks.
He hastily unlocked the door of the house, set his briefcase and the cans of cat food on the kitchen table, and gave Ricardo a passing scrub as the Siamese wound himself out from under the chair legs.
Malcolm aimed for the back of this house, to his bedroom closet where he switched on the light and rifled through his small stack of shoes, finding a rather worn and dusty pair of Brooks. He stripped off his shirt and found a t-shirt in his dresser. He pulled it over his head as he dug further for a pair of neglected running
Near the entrance to the convenience store, a young, wiry stray cat, all black, sniffed the garbage can. Malcolm paused, remembering that Ricardo was almost out of food. His hesitation to break his writing streak this weekend had kept him from his usual grocery errand.
When the tank was full, Malcolm headed for the convenience store, hoping that they carried Fancy Feast. The stray mewled pitifully at him as he opened the door. The squat clerk at the register did not look up from her cell phone as he entered, and he passed the displays of Hot Fries and salted peanuts, scanning the shelves.
Malcolm grabbed a couple of cans of 9Lives, imagining Ricardo’s disdain. The register was strategically placed by the case of promised Krispy Krunchy chicken, and he could not help but smile.
“Is that all?” the listless clerk mumbled.
“No. I’d like one chicken strip, please.”
“You want one chicken strip? Not a whole order?” she asked, frowning at him.
“Just one.”
The clerked opened the case, mumbling to herself, grabbed a pair of tongs, drew out a chicken strip that appeared to be simultaneously grease-soaked and dehydrated, and dropped it on a paper tray. Malcolm paid for his purchase and walked out.
The stray beseeched him again as he stepped outside.
“Yes, yes, but over here,” Malcolm reassured the cat, leading him around the corner of the store where he squatted down and slid the chicken strip onto the pavement before the young tom. The stray pounced on it eagerly.
“You’re welcome. Ricardo would insist.”
Malcolm tossed the paper tray into the garbage and went back to his car, smiling at himself.
Amused and relaxed, Malcolm pulled onto St. Mary, heading toward the Saint Streets and turned on the radio. The twiney, British strains of Al Stewart’s “Year of the Cat” met his ears, and he threw his head back in laughter.
He kept laughing as he thought of the confused clerk, the lonely chicken strip, and the image of how he must have looked, talking to and feeding a stray cat. He laughed at himself laughing as he drove through campus and crossed Johnston Street, feeling slightly hysterical.
He finally caught his breath and wiped tears from his eyes as he passed Olde Tyme Grocery with its never-ending line at the snow cone window. He was approaching the intersection of St. Mary and St. Landry, slowing with the traffic, when a figure on the sidewalk caught his eye. A jogger. With a French braid that swung like a pendulum as she ran. Malcolm’s breath hitched when he recognized Maren Gardner. Toned runner’s calves pumped her lean legs. The braid swayed above compact hips and a narrow waist. Sweat had soaked through her sports tank and glistened on her tan shoulders.
Malcolm wrenched his eyes from her just as he passed her, but they found her again in the rearview mirror as he crossed St. Landry. He caught her as she dragged a wristband across her forehead, a look of transcendence on her face. Cheeks flushed. Mouth open. Malcolm sped away, perturbed to find that he was rock hard.
Holy shit.
He switched the radio to NPR and listened to Robert Siegel introduce a story about Pakistani slums. He concentrated on the story and its central figure, a questionable politician who was being compared to Tony Soprano. When he reached St. Patrick Street and pulled into his driveway, Malcolm stepped out of the car and felt the heat of the afternoon.
Sweat. Flushed cheeks.
He hastily unlocked the door of the house, set his briefcase and the cans of cat food on the kitchen table, and gave Ricardo a passing scrub as the Siamese wound himself out from under the chair legs.
Malcolm aimed for the back of this house, to his bedroom closet where he switched on the light and rifled through his small stack of shoes, finding a rather worn and dusty pair of Brooks. He stripped off his shirt and found a t-shirt in his dresser. He pulled it over his head as he dug further for a pair of neglected running
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