Luella Sara opened her eyes and looked at the clock; it was nearly noon. “Arrgh.” She closed them and rolled onto her back, the loose Wal-Mart pajamas bunching under her slight figure. “I’m hungry.” She sat up, moving her wig from the left side of her head to the right. “Kids, I want a Crunchwrap Supreme and a Red Bull!” There was no answer. “Kids, feed me, your mother is hungry!” There was still no answer. “Oh, that’s right; they’re all
living with family and friends. Heck, I’ll have to feed myself or starve.”
She dragged herself out of bed and headed for the bathroom, catching her bare toes on assorted clothing covering the bedroom carpet completely. She nearly twisted her ankle as her foot landed on a pink-panty-covered high heeled pump. “Crap! I wish someone would clean this house!”
She showered carefully, avoiding wetting the brown wig. Then she pried her eyes wider, but when they slipped to half-mast, she made them up anyway. The eyebrows were a little crooked, but what the heck. If she put on a tight, short black skirt, and her huge black pushup bra under a sheer white shirt, no guy was going to watch her eyebrows. Crap, she knew how to flirt! “Play your strong suit,” Daddy always said. Well, she did, and with a
Luella Sara walked carefully down the stairway to the kitchen, avoiding toys, more clothes, handmade gifts, the boxes and tissue that had protected them, and lots and lots of envelopes with crush notes, some still had money peeking out; her oldest daughter had been less than thorough. Sara grabbed two twenties and shoved them into her bra.
She made it to the kitchen, another minefield of newspapers and dirty dishes. She stared for a moment at the basil plant her youngest daughter had given her for Mother’s Day the previous year. It was dead and brown now; no one had bothered to water it. “Crap, someone should throw that out.”
She went to the dented refrigerator, a reminder of a particularly vicious canned food fight she’d had with her husband. “Where is he?” She didn’t really care, but crap; he should come home and clean the house! She looked inside the fridge; not much. “Why doesn’t that lazy husband buy food? I make all the money, he gets an allowance.”
Eggs, could she make eggs? She looked at them doubtfully, absently grabbing a can of Red Bull, there were plenty more where that came from; a refrigerator with eggs, Red Bull cans, and capers. Who in heck bought those capers, and for what? That was probably the middle child; she didn’t run with the rest of them, she might have tried to make a fancy dinner for her siblings when Luella Sara was out of town. “Who cares,” she shrugged,
cracking the Red Bull. If she drank three Red Bulls, it would hold her until dinner; Luella Sara had trained herself not to eat much.
She moved dirty plates to the side and opened a notebook. This was to be a third book, “Work, ick, heck and crap.” She doodled and made some M things that looked like seagulls. She drew a dead fish with an X for its eye. She laughed to herself, the Red Bull was working. Then she drew a crude crab and colored it scarlet with a red Sharpie. She laughed some more. She picked up her Blackberry and made a call; this book would need a ghost writer more than the other two.
By early evening, she was done “working.” She stood up; were there any men to drool as she shook her thing? Maybe they would clean the house? Probably not, it was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays were dead everywhere. Besides, she was once a politician, and people watched her; she couldn’t go to a bar. And her husband wouldn’t be home for a day or two; he was doing some “roofing” with a friend, she supposed.
She got a coat; it was winter, and climbed into her Cadillac. She drove to the nearest Taco Bell. When the pimpled drive-through attendant asked for cash, she stuck her small nose into the air. “The Queen doesn’t carry money,” she declared haughtily. This had happened before; the attendant called the manager.
“Sure, Luella Sara, I’ll cover the till for you. I’ll give your husband a call; he’ll bring cash.” The manager smiled kindly, he’d known this woman for years.
“Thanks, and tell him ‘Hi’ from me. He needs to come home and clean the house.” She took her food and drove away.
The manager watched her taillights disappear. He turned to the young attendant. “She was so pretty once, but now dusk is falling on Luella Sara.”
This is in response to a Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction challenge using the words “figure, dusk, flirt, mobile phone or similar, and wig. Of course I thought of someone.