“Would you please smile?”  He asked, the corners of his lips twitching upward.

It took immense effort at first, but she obliged.  Once her lips had done what her brain had told them to, it became effortless.  The panic vanished from her mind and the stress vanished from her veins.  Without thinking, she leaned forward and kissed him.

Something this time was calmer, gentler.  Her heart quickened but didn’t throw itself against her ribs, and her mind was clear enough to realize what was happening.  She felt his fingertips brush against her cheek and up her jaw, sending shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold summer evening.  The sound of the fire vanished, replaced by the sound of their breath.  Without hesitation, Morgan lifted her palm onto his shoulder and slid it onto his neck. 

His skin was warm from the fire.  She fed off of that, pulling his upper body toward her as he pulled her waist toward him.

He pulled away suddenly, but gently this time.  Morgan struggled to catch her breath as she watched Tyler pull his sweatshirt off and toss it to the side.  Then he turned to her with a smile she’d never seen before.  It touched the iris of his eyes more than ever, the shadows in his face seemed lighter, the dimples in his cheeks inviting.

He pulled her toward him swiftly and she didn’t refuse.  Before she knew what had happened, she was laying on top of him, her left palm in the grass and her right one on his shoulder for support.  Her skin was tender from being so close to the fire, but she ignored it.

His tongue brushed against her lips and she parted them willingly.  She instinctively pressed her stomach against his as she traced her bare toes down his shin.  Before long, her back was pressed against the grass and her fingertips were intertwined with his hair.  Just as she began to wish for a breath, Tyler’s lips met her neck.  She turned her head away from the stars and willed him on. 

Her heart raced on and on and her nerves informed her of every blade of grass that touched her skin.  She wrapped one leg around his waist in an effort to get away from the damp lawn, and he reached down and pulled the other leg around to match.

Her hands found their way under the bottom of his shirt as his lips found their way up her jaw line.  She pulled eagerly at the fabric, nudging it higher as her breath became shorter.  When his lips met hers she could barely breathe.  She let out an exasperated moan and felt his breath rush across her cheeks as he smiled. 

Still short of breath, she moved her own lips over his jaw and toward his shoulder, brushing his skin each time she needed a breath.  She left his shirt where it was and instead began tugging his collar away from his collarbone.  He sighed and pressed close to her.

Suddenly his shoulder slid away from her lips, and she found her nose level with his chest.  The smell of his cologne intoxicated her.  She tightened her legs around his waist and gripped his shoulder as he moved.

She felt his lips move over her nose and across her cheek again.  His tongue brushed against her neck before he breathed in her ear that they should go inside.

“Okay,” she meant to whisper, but it evolved into another moan.  He smiled and began to sit up, holding her knees in place.  She automatically locked her lips to his neck again, resuming her attempt to move his shirt out of the way.  She wasn’t sure how he managed to stand up, but he was on his feet in a moment, hands on her waist to support her. 

“You’re distracting me.” He told her quietly, moving through the garden.

She pulled away from his neck and glanced up at his eyes with a smile.  “Too bad.”  She whispered, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

He laughed and turned his head to look at her, grinning.  For a moment he stopped walking so that his lips could meet hers again.  His breath flooded her mouth and she felt instilled with energy, reaching her tongue toward his and struggling to press close to him.

“M,” He smiled, pulling away gently. 

“Fine.”  She mumbled, resting her cheek on his shoulder.  Rather than simply stop altogether, she continued letting her breath rush over his neck, and traced her fingertips over his shoulder and collarbone.  They found a home in his hair as they entered Tyler’s dark house.  He paused briefly by the door before carrying her upstairs.

As he began ascending the stairs, Morgan hastily clenched her legs around his waist.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and her heart thudded.  Eventually the stairs were gone and her muscles relaxed slightly, just as he pushed his bedroom door open.

Morgan’s back landed softly against his quilt.  She moved toward the center of the mattress, inviting him forward by pressing her palms on the back of his shoulders.  He obliged happily, surrounding her in the dark.  He lifted her waist and moved her forward, resting her head on the pillows. 

He focused on her neck at first, and she struggled to see over the top of his head in the dark.  Eventually she closed her eyes and focused on breathing.  She only opened them out of surprise when his lips left her skin and she felt him move on top of her.  She felt him lift her shirt toward her chest and his breath spread over her stomach.  She loosened her grip around his waist so that he could move, keeping one hand on his shoulder and the other gripped firmly on the quilt.

He moved slowly toward her face again, lifting her shirt as he went.  Eventually the fabric struggled to get over her arms, so she lifted her shoulders and arms and let Tyler cast her shirt aside.  His skin felt warmer than ever, pressing against her stomach and chest as he parted her lips with his tongue. 

Her heart seemed to be pulsing blood through her body so quickly that she could feel every heartbeat in every atom of her being.  Her mind moved too quickly to focus, shifting into an animalistic longing.  She didn’t think about how she moved, intertwining her legs with his, tracing his muscles with her fingertips.  He moved across her with strength and motive, leading her when she faltered. 

She lifted his shirt off easily.  He rolled over as she dropped it on the floor, and his hands led her hips on top of him.  Before she could gather herself, his hands found their way to the button of her shorts, and as soon as he had undone it she leaned forward with a smile.  Pressing her torso against his, she helped him to pull them off, quickly doing the same with his after.

He pressed on her hips, and nervousness flooded her veins.  Her muscles tensed under his hands.  He quickly moved on top of her, moving over her gently as Morgan relaxed again.  His palm met the inside of her thigh as her fingertips moved up his spine.  The more he moved, the more alive she felt.  Her muscles contracted and breath escaped her without her intention.  They each began breaking the silence, small gasps and moans trailing over their lips as Tyler moved more quickly and forcefully.  He paused after a strong movement, and Morgan pressed against him as she felt his palm press against her pelvis. 

His hand moved slowly over her skin.  She swallowed and closed her eyes, pressing her palm against his shoulder.  She felt his cheek brush against hers, his lips against her neck, and then she stopped focusing on the top half of her body.  For a moment the silence stretched on, barely even broken by their shallow breathing.  Suddenly Morgan pressed upward against his abdomen as she let out a long moan, and Tyler’s breath flooded over her shoulder again.  She reached over his shoulder and pulled him toward her forcefully, lifting her back off the mattress.  He urged onward and she welcomed him, tightening her legs around his.  He pushed her knees outward with his own.  His free hand traced from her shoulder over her elbow, where he pulled her forearm toward the pillows and wrapped his fingers through hers.  He pressed her palm into the pillow, enveloping her small hand in his larger, stronger one. 

Eventually she relaxed and desperately sucked air deep into her lungs, closing her eyes against the night as he slipped her underwear over her knees and ankles.  He released her hand and she felt his palms slide between her shoulders and the mattress, but she kept her eyes closed and focused on breathing.  After fumbling for a few seconds, he gave a swift tug and pulled the last piece of fabric away from her skin.  She felt his lips travel from her collarbone over her chest, and as her breath continuously became increasingly shallow again, she slid her hand below his waist.  He paused before moving his lips back toward her neck and over her jaw line.  His waist became easier to reach as he moved, and she quickly completed her intention. 

“Don’t move.”  He whispered, his breath hot on her neck and ear.  Her heart pounded as she felt him twist away from her.  She felt exposed as he left, but she willed herself to keep her eyes closed.  She heard a drawer open and close, and he was back before she had caught her breath, moving as though there hadn’t been a pause. 

Her muscles became increasingly tense, her movements increasingly limited.  Eventually she kept her left hand on his shoulder and her right hand clenched on the quilt.  He paused briefly to nudge her knees outward with his own, but she reacted by simply wrapping her legs firmly around his waist again. 

Her heart fought against her rib cage now, yearning to break free.  As his left hand folded over her right, she released the fabric and held onto him instead.  Her left hand gripped his shoulder more and more tightly with each movement, until she wasn’t even aware of how hard she was clenching his muscles beneath her own.  Her head tilted back on the pillow as her neck tensed, and her vocal chords left her control.  She heard him reacting similarly, moaning in her left ear as they moved.

Finally he moved forward in one long, shaking thrust, and she felt every muscle in her body contract.  She yelled out and he groaned in her ear, his muscles hard under her palm.  When he relaxed, he breathed fast and hard against her neck, cheek and shoulder, and she let her face turn toward him, exhausted.

He laid down next to her, arm wrapped over her stomach and his leg over her waist.  His lips met hers and his tongue brushed against her own once again, but she no longer had the energy to press for more.  When he pulled away, she rolled onto her shoulder, struggling for breath.  They pulled toward each other and she pressed her forehead against his.  His breath flooded over her chest, seemingly burning her nerves.

Her mind cleared as her heartbeat and breath slowed down.  She blinked in the dark, searching for Tyler’s eyes.  Even in the shadows, she could tell that they were a vivid blue.  Every line of his face mirrored the smile on his lips, and she reflected it without a worry.  He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm around her more tightly.  She closed her eyes as he rested his chin on her forehead.

He was talking about the music he listened to, but his voice was trying to convey something else.  There was so much effort behind each word – spoken softly, carefully, methodically – that it seemed he was insisting he wanted to hear her speak instead.  He was pushing her, nudging her. 

“But there are no lyrics,” she pointed out playfully, resisting the urge to laugh.  “How can it be good if there aren’t any lyrics?”

“See now, that’s just ignorant.”  Here he picked up a tone that sounded like a teacher proudly educating a prize student.

“It’s an opinion.”  She argued.

He threw his head back and let out a sigh.  “You’re killing me.”

She smiled at him for a second, too entertained to notice the chill that had begun infecting the night air.  The heat of the sun seemed to have lifted into the sky, becoming the stars above and leaving the earth cold and damp.  Sarah nestled herself more deeply into her sleeping bag and turned to search for the moon.

“How many have you seen?”  She asked curiously, motioning lazily toward the sky.

“I’ve only seen one.”  She turned and saw David training his own eyes on the stars now, searching for signs of movement.  “How about you?”

“Six.”  She replied proudly.

“Six?  That’s ridiculous.”

He was looking at her again.  It made her uncomfortable, so she slid even deeper into her sleeping bag, pulling the damp fabric up to her nose.  She hummed an agreement and looked away from him pointedly.

He still had questions, weighted heavily with tones of interest and followed by unwavering attention.  She answered carelessly just to fill the air with sound, more afraid of silence than idle chat.  After a while her mind wandered.  Her mouth moved automatically, producing old responses that had been used countless times, but focusing on the psyche of the whole conversation instead. 

Presumably he had these questions ready just the way she had her answers.  He must have used them all before, each time practicing vocal inflections and emotional attachment.  Practice still hadn’t made perfect in Sarah’s opinion.  She could identify each flaw easily: the overly compassionate undertones, the lack of genuine curiosity, the delay in producing questions that directly related to her answers.  Perhaps most importantly – though not regrettably, as Sarah was concerned – he never asked anything exceptionally personal.  She firmly believed that was the way to a girl’s emotional side. 

As her answers became shorter David’s questions became fewer.  She gave him less to work with and he worked with less vigor.  The conversations around them slowly quieted and faded out, picking up energy occasionally but only briefly. 

It seemed that David had only just asked about Sarah’s brother when she awoke to find the sky blocked by clouds.  She was surrounded by silence – except for the cayote that had just awoken her from a distance – and had grown considerably colder since answering David’s last question.

Meghan Green was visiting a friend in Boston on July 19, 2011.  While her friend stopped by the office for a few hours, Meghan ventured into the North End to pick up a cake she had ordered.  She took just enough cash to take a bus there and back and slipped her own credit card into her purse, mind set solely on picking up the surprise she had arranged days ago.  If she managed her trip in time, her friend would arrive home to a professional birthday cake laid out carefully on the kitchen table.

Unfamiliar with the Boston streets, she decided to take a bus across town rather than walk.  Very few people seemed to be thinking the same as her however, because the bus stop was almost completely abandoned.  She found a seat on the bench and waited patiently for her bus to arrive.

People slowly gathered around her, filling the bench and standing beside it.  A few chatted to each other about the beautiful weather or the play that would be happening in the park that evening, but Meghan remained silent and solitary as she waited.

Moments slipped by uneventfully, and she was just settling in for a long wait when a young man arrived.  He was too young for her (eighteen or nineteen at most) and wouldn’t have caught her attention except for the way he was fidgeting with his hands.

Glancing sideways, she noted uncomfortably that he was wringing his wrists in his hands, sliding his palm over the back of the other, lacing his fingers together and then pulling them apart nervously.  She realized upon closer inspection that his lips were moving as though to form words, but no sound came out.  She immediately offered him her seat and moved away before he answered.

The bus arrived shortly after.  She sat across from the computerized billboard that announced the next stop, so as not to get lost in the city.  There were several stops between where she was and where she needed to be, so she took the time to find her credit card in her purse.

The wailing started as soon as the bus hit a pothole. 

Meghan dug her nails into the leather of her wallet, wishing she could simply turn the noise off.  Knowing this was sadly impossible, she scanned the bus for the young man she’d given her seat to at the bus stop.

He was sitting across from her, slouching slightly in his seat with his eyes on his hands.  He twisted his fingers in and out of each other restlessly, occasionally pinching the tips until they turned white.  A wrinkled, white-haired woman next to him offered a stress ball, and while he refused to take it, his wailing subsided.  The woman slowly retreated her offer but continued watching him calmly, observing his actions through wise eyes.

Meghan, however, watched him warily.  She was familiar with the anxious, restricted way he acted.  He was moving more than anyone else on the bus but still seemed to be holding something back.  She observed with disdain, but forced herself to be somewhat compassionate. 

When he began muttering to himself under his breath, what little resolve she had mustered broke.  She searched her purse anxiously for spare cash and change, but found nothing worthwhile.  It occurred to her to beg other passengers for money, but what explanation could she offer?  No one would give someone money just so they could get off the bus and catch another one.

She shuffled through her bag again, taking things out and digging to the bottom of the bag.  She retrieved a penny in desperation, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger as she returned everything else to her purse. 

Eventually she zipped her bag and settled more deeply into her seat, retracting from the world around her.  She stared at the penny, taking note of every imperfection it possessed: how it was covered in a fuzzy green substance, how it was tarnished and dented, how she couldn’t even discern what year it had been made.  Just as she began noting details as small as scratches along the edge, the young man began to ramble incoherently across from her.

She flipped the penny over, moving it in senseless patterns for no reason other than to stay occupied. 

She was beginning to run her nail over the edge of the coin when the bus began pulling to a loud, rough stop.  The boy’s volume increased with the volume of the bus.  His rambling got louder and faster, until eventually he wasn’t forming words at all but simply moaning.  Eventually his anxiety climaxed in an anguished yell that surely made everyone but Meghan turn.

Meghan kept her eyes on her lap, where her fingers had curled into a tight fist around the penny.  She knew what she’d see if she looked up, but found the white of her knuckles far more appealing to look at.  She clenched the penny and closed her eyes, doing her best to ignore the agonized scream that was now all around her.  She reminded herself that the sound would pass, and in the meantime she’d have the penny to distract her.

It wasn’t always a penny.  Often times it was a coin of some sort, but over the years it had been many things: the edge of her sleeve, a card in her pocket, the click end of a pen.  When she was a young girl it had started as a stuffed bear, until her parents told her she needed to let go.

She found it cruel, even as a child that her parents would try to eschew something of comfort from her.  At first she obeyed reluctantly, allowing them to sit the bear on a shelf across the room before saying goodnight.  For several nights she survived the darkness without its warmth.

One Friday evening her brother broke his schedule.  Their mother had arrived home late that night, and David had to wait an extra forty-five minutes for her to tuck him into bed.  In the meantime, Meghan’s father had set her to bed and turned out the lights, then left to try and calm David.  Meghan and her father both knew (and Meghan wondered if David somehow understood too) that their father’s attempts at soothing words and comforting gestures were futile.

David’s screams tore through the house like electric waves through water, breaking the quiet in Meghan’s room and forcing her eyes open.  It was as though she was living in the middle of a horror movie.  Her brother might as well have been at the mercy of an axe-murderer, considering the noises he was making.

She slipped out of bed and retrieved the bear.  While she waited for her mother to come home, Meghan buried her face in the stuffed animal, clenching its arm her fist and curling herself into a ball around it. 

The bus eventually came to rest by the curb, and the boy slowly quieted.  Meghan sucked in a breath and looked up at him, unsure of what she hoped to see.  She found that he was now slouching badly, with his chin nearly pressed to his chest and his hands balled into fists on his kneecaps.  Clearly he was not enjoying this experience.

The bus began pulling away from the curb, and the boy began to bounce his fists off his knees.  The motion seemed harmless at first, but Meghan knew (and by the look of it, so did the white-haired woman) that it was about to escalate into something dangerous.  Within seconds, he was pounding his fists on his knees and shaking his head violently, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Every passenger had turned to stare.  The white-haired woman was muttering streams of words to him, but to an outsider it must not have looked like much of an effort.  A bus patrol officer made his way to the scene and scolded the woman caustically.  He threatened that if she could not calm her companion, they’d both have to leave.

Watching this, Meghan felt a new type of discontent swell in her chest.  She glared at the officer until he walked away, then turned her gaze back to the woman and the young man.  He had lowered his voice and stopped beating his fists, but was still shaking his head and groaning.  Passengers around him did nothing to hide their discomfort.

The woman explained to the young man that they would be getting off at the next stop.  It was clear to Meghan that the woman was deviating from her original plan, but perhaps it was not so clear to the young man. 

“Do you understand?”  The woman asked, just as the bus began to pull toward another curb.

He nodded, and stood when she asked him to.  As soon as they had left the bus, the remaining passengers relaxed noticeably.  A few still wore looks of disdain and disapproval, but most returned to their magazines and phones.

Meghan got off a few stops later and walked several blocks to the bakery she had ordered from.  She was surprised to find that the line was out the door, but found herself standing in warm sunlight.  For a while she amused herself with reading signs in shops and watching people pass by, but eventually her mind drifted back to the boy. 

She slipped a hand in her pocket and pulled out the filthy old penny she’d clenched before.  It seemed silly for a second, until she remembered the boy’s screams as the bus pulled to a stop.  She closed her eyes and found herself suddenly in a dark room rather than on a sunny street, clutching a teddy bear instead of a coin.  The memory overtook her for several moments, but for once she didn’t fight it.

When she opened her eyes, she hastily retrieved her phone from her purse.  She punched in a ten digit number from memory and waited nervously while the line rang.

“Hello?” A weary voice answered.

“Hello Mom.  I was just thinking of you all.”  There was a brief pause in which Meghan sucked in a few deep breaths, and her mother presumably processed a wave of shock.  Finally Meghan asked simply, “How’s David?”

3. Interpreting “The Cat in the Rain”

The Literal and Deeper meanings

Character Analysis:

            “The American wife” is the main character in the story.  She and her husband are on holiday in Italy, but rain has trapped them in their hotel.  She does not find as much entertainment in books as her husband, and has taken to gazing out the window while her husband reads.

            When she sees a cat under her windowsill, she runs out into the rain to get it.  The hotel manager offers her an umbrella, and in the time that she talks with him the cat runs away.  The woman, unable to find it, returns inside to her hotel room. 

            At the end of the story she regrets the loss of the cat, her short and boring hair, her mundane life with her husband.  The hotel manager sends her a cat, and the only question she is left with is whether the cat was the one she saw outside, or one that the manager had arranged her to get.

            “The husband” never leaves the bed in the hotel room.  He reads his story and offers, at one point to get the cat for his wife.  He warns her not to “get wet” as she leaves.

            When she comes back and begins fretting over her appearance, he tells her she looks “pretty damn nice” the way she is, and that he likes her the way she is.  He implies that this should be enough, and that his word is final. 

            “The padrone” is the manager of the hotel, who offers the American wife an umbrella as she chases the cat out.  When she loses the cat, he has one sent to her.  He appeals to her because of his dignity and age, and the way he wants to serve her.

Symbolism:

            The woman is searching for something new in her life, something of company that will offer her human comfort.  Essentially, she wants a child.  On a particularly rainy day – the rain represents sadness – she sees an opportunity for a this in the shape of a cat; she sees a stray cat under her hotel room windowsill.  Her husband offers to get it for her, but she doesn’t want his help. 

            As she leaves the hotel, she runs into the manager.  She has a very strong physical attraction to him, and he encourages her to go get the cat.  He sends an umbrella to keep the rain off of her as she runs outside, which is a metaphor for him keeping her happy.  While she is standing under the umbrella she sees a man in a rubber cape run into a café, which represents that the hotel manager slept with the woman but used protection.[1]

            She searches for the cat after seeing this, but can’t find it.

            At the end of the story she sits in her hotel room, analyzing herself in the mirror.  She thinks she looks “boyish”, which could stand for her feeling infertile or undesirable.  Her husband says she looks nice, but she isn’t satisfied.

            Suddenly a maid brings her a cat, saying the padrone sent it.  This most likely means that the condom broke, or slept with each other again, and she was impregnated by him.

Meaning of the Title:

            “The Cat in the Rain” very clearly references the cat the woman saw out of her window, but which she couldn’t find later.  The fact that Hemingway specifically referenced the cat that was lost suggests that he hoped for the story to revolve around a child that was conceived but lost amid a storm, or stress.  This child would have been miscarried because she wasn’t in prime physical health for pregnancy.

In the winter of 2010, Swine Flu swept through the Boston population, eventually causing Dalton Moretti’s wife to fall ill.  On the second day of her illness she was unable to get out of bed, and soDalton awoke to a crying baby and a pleading woman in bed next to him. 

He moved to the child’s room to find that she, too, was sick.  Fever burned across her forehead and she refused to take a bottle.  Frustrated,Daltoncalled a neighbor to care for both his wife and infant.

“Can’t you stay home?” His wife begged from under her quilt, too exhausted to move.  She watched him in desperation as he straightened a silk tie around his neck.

“I have a meeting today.”  He scoffed.  “I think that’s more important than playing Mr. Mom for a few hours, don’t you?”

As soon as the neighbor arrived,Daltonrushed out of the apartment.  He slammed the door behind him, fist clenched around the handle of his leather briefcase.  He straightened his tie and took a few deep breaths before walking to the elevator.  His mind was focused on work by the time the elevator arrived on his floor.  He left all thoughts of his family on level nine of his building, and once he reached the lobby his mind was filled with work and business tactics.

He hummed as he walked along the cobblestone streets and to the bus stop.  He walked several blocks farther than he needed to, but he had no patience for the misfits who filled the stops near his own apartment.  Instead he liked to wait by the park, where businessmen like him remained respectfully silent and appropriately solitary every morning. 

On this particular December morning he found himself waiting between quiet elderly woman and a young man whose scrubs were visible below his parka.  Though he felt slightly degraded by such company, he ignored them and retreated into his own mind, still working through plans for his upcoming meeting.

Only a moment after his arrival at the bus stop, his phone began to vibrate deep in his pocket.  He frowned, gritting his teeth and pulling the device out with disdain.  A groan escaped his lips when he realized the caller was only the neighbor he’d left with his wife.

“Yes?” He grunted into the phone, glaring into empty space in front of him.

“I’m sorryDalton,” the woman began agitatedly. “It’s just that Emily’s fever is worse than I thought you said this morning.  Are you sure it wasn’t higher?”

“I didn’t take her temperature.”

“Oh.”  A slight pause followed.  “Well it’s very high.  And if she hasn’t eaten since last night—“

“Her bottle is in the fridge.  Find a way to get her to eat.”

“Well of course I’ll try, but I just think that if I can’t get her to eat by noon or so, she should really go to the doctor.  And Monica is in no shape to take her, obviously…”

“I’m sure the doctor won’t be necessary.  Monica knows where everything is, if you need anything else.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“Goodbye Ms. Easton.” Daltonslipped his phone back into his pocket and tried to let all thoughts of illness slip his mind.  He was beginning to consider a proposition he could offer at the meeting when the old woman next to him interrupted.

“Was that your nanny?” 

Daltonlooked down to see large, hazy blue eyes staring up at him.  Wrinkles covered every inch of her pudgy face, but each wrinkle was curved in a way that suggested she was smiling.

“No, just the neighbor.”  He answered shortly.  Then, compulsively, “My wife normally cares for our daughter.”  He turned away, frustrated with the strange woman.

“Oh?  Is she away?”

“Sick.”  He muttered.  “Flu.”

The woman nodded.  “You said the child wouldn’t eat?”

Daltongrunted. 

“Does she have the flu as well?”

“No, just a fever.”

“Well that’s not good.  But if you slip some peppermint into some water and just drip it in her mouth, it’ll bring the fever down.  Maybe she would eat then too.”

Daltonturned and stared at her.  “I’m sure the nanny will figure it out.”

The woman clucked her tongue and shook her head slightly.  “Best not to wait.  The fever will only make her refuse more food.  Every bite counts when they’re that small.”  She watched him for a moment, until she understood that he wasn’t going to take her advice.  “Call the nanny.”  She told him sternly.

“I can take care of my own family.”  He spat.

The old woman uttered a curt gasp.  “Apparently not!”

“Who are you to be some altruistic advisor?” Daltongrowled, turning on her.  He clenched the handle of his briefcase in his fist and prepared to berate her through gritted teeth, but she spoke over him quickly.

“Who are you not to?”  She countered in an even, if carping, voice.  She stared him down indignantly as she continued.  “Is it not your family, after all?”

“And they’ll be fine without you.”

Daltonturned away, but could not ignore her final, cutting comment; “Your poor wife must already be mad, to love a man like you.”

Daltonrefused to acknowledge her, or the fact that her words had begun echoing through his mind.  He drew himself up to a full height next to her and made a show of fixing his tie and Rolex.

The woman took no notice of him either, made no further effort to impress him.  After a quick glance in her direction,Daltonsaw that she was standing silently next to him, eyes fixed ahead on something he could see.

The sight irritated him.  He focused on ignoring the woman’s very existence while he waited for the bus, and planned to stand at the farthest end from her when the time came to board.  Eventually the bus rounded a corner several blocks away, andDaltonmoved away from the disparaging old woman as the crowd jostled into a line. 

Before the bus arrived,Dalton’s phone began to vibrate.  Anxious and annoyed, he answered before checking who the caller was.

“yes?”

“Mr. Moretti, it’s Ms. Easton.”

“You just called Ms. Easton.  I’m boarding my bus now, I don’t have time—“

“The bus pulled to a high-pitched stop in front of the gathered crowd and Ms. Easton’s response was lost in the noise.  As a business man,Daltoncouldn’t stand to be unaware of something that had been said to him, especially when there might be orders to be given or information to be taken.

With a deep sigh, he stepped reluctantly out of line.

“I didn’t catch that.”  He groaned.

“Emily’s fever is one-hundred and two.” Ms. Easton fretted.  “I’m sorry Mr. Moretti, but I wouldn’t risk keeping her home…”

“Put peppermint tea in her mouth.” Daltonmuttered, watching the old woman climb onto the bus.

A lengthy pause followed this order.  Over the sigh of the bus as it rolled away,Daltonsimply heard Ms. Easton ask, “Peppermint tea?”

“Yes.  Ask Monica where it is.  Goodbye Ms. Easton.”

By the timeDaltonarrived at work, his mind was focused solely on business.  By the end of his meeting he had presented so many ideas and plans of action that none of his partners resented his initial tardiness.

He arrived home late that night to find Ms. Easton fawning over his wife, who was still bedridden and desperately ill.  He thought to kiss her hello, but her forehead shone with sweat, and besides, she didn’t seem conscious enough to know if he touched her or not.

He invited Ms. Easton to finish sponging cold water over Monica’s forehead.  He left her to her work and made his way to the nursery.

He found his daughter sleeping peacefully in her crib, no longer pale the way Monica still was.  He pressed his hand curiously against her tiny forehead and found it to be significantly cooler than it had been that morning.  Taken aback,Daltonreturned to his wife and Ms. Easton.

“The aspirin broke the fever.”  He assumed aloud as he walked in the master bedroom.

Ms. Easton looked up, temporarily perplexed.  “Oh, no.”  She countered eventually.  Then, quickly, as though she were covering a grave mistake in conduct: “Well, perhaps.  But the tea is what helped the most.  That was an excellent suggestion Mr. Moretti.”

Daltonremained silent.  He watched as Ms. Easton turned her attention back to Monica, regarding her actions with little emotion.

Eventually she finished andDaltonwas left with no choice but to reclaim responsibility for his family.  He paid Ms. Easton and showed her out, listening stoically as she recounted that Emily needed to be fed and Monica should keep drinking, and that she, Ms. Easton, was free tomorrow should he need anything.

Finally he managed to close the door behind her.  Cherishing the silence that followed, he slowly fixed a bottle and carried his daughter into the living room. 

He had long since come to terms with the hardships of having an infant child.  On the rare occasion that he fed her, he followed a loose routine.  He would have normally used the time to work through the papers in his briefcase, but this was impossible with Emily in his arms.  Rather than waste his time completely, he turned on the news.

On a normal evening, he would watch current events with little interest.  But that night, he couldn’t look away.

They showed the footage twice, at different speeds each time.  He did not realize at first how terrified he should have been.  It was tragic, yes, but impersonal.

It was when the newscaster showed footage of the bus passengers being pulled from the wreckage thatDaltonbecame anxious.

A young doctor had stayed on the scene, refusing to be treated until he had helped his fellow passengers.  Footage aired of the young man giving CPR to an elderly woman, bringing her back from the dead.  He did this for a young woman also, but she was too far gone.  The medics arrived, the young doctor was forced into an ambulance, and in the chaos of the accident four were promptly pronounced dead.  The truck driver died on impact, as did three bus passengers.  Two more were taken to the ICU and had passed away around dinnertime. 

Emily suddenly took her lips off the bottle and turned away moodily.  Bubbles entered the bottle tip noisily, draggingDalton’s attention away from the television.

He stared at Emily for a moment, overcome with shock.  Eventually she began to cry, and the noise dragged him back into action.  He put her bottle down and carried her into the master bedroom.

His wife was still pale and hot with fever, and mercifully, still asleep. Daltonused one free hand to brush damp ringlets of hair out of her eyes, realizing for the first time how sick she really was.  Emily began to cry desperately in his arms, so he fled the room with her, shutting doors to create a sound barrier between his wife and his daughter. 

He bounced Emily as best he could in his arms, emulating Monica as best he could.  He found a glass of cold tea on the kitchen counter and began spooning droplets into the infant’s mouth.  It soothed her quickly, and when her tears had subsided he returned her to her crib to sleep. 

He hesitated in the hallway, exhaustion drawing him toward the couch in the living room, but worry pulling him toward where his wife slept.  Before moving in either direction, he found his way to the kitchen.

He quickly boiled water, set a peppermint tea bag in a mug, and brought a steaming mug to his wife.

The kindness had left her eyes, and her wrinkles were pulled into a severe frown. Daltonturned away and ignored her words, but couldn’t bring his focus back to work.  Knowing that the old woman was still glaring at him was nettling and obnoxious.  After several moments he chanced a glance in her direction, only to find that she had turned away but was still frowning.  Her arms were crossed and she filled her diaper once again with poop and it smelled like dandelions and kittens. Then, out of nowhere Spencer dropkicks the old lady shouting.

“BITCH GIMME MY MONEY”

“Spencer I have something to tell you”

“Juh huh”

“I want to cuddle with you and drink red wine”

“FUCK YOU JOE” Spencer has just found out that the old lady who he prostituted himself to is actually Joe.
            “I’m sorry… It’s just I saw you on the street and I devised this plan to get into your pants”

“But why?” Spencer pleaded

“Because… you’re eyes are just so beautiful” upon saying this he chuckles and Caitlin pops out of nowhere and high fives him.

“You went that far just to say that one punch line?! It’s been thirty years and I’m a successful lady of the night I don’t need this” Said Spencer holding back tears.

“That was so awesome Joe! Let’s fuck!” Says Caitlin to Joe.

Joe takes a deep breath and says “Only if you brought the strap on” Caitlin then walks away crying

“What’s wrong with you” Spencer says bluntly

“Nothing” says Joe as Caitlin walks out of the strap on store across the street

In the winter of 2010, Swine Flu swept through the Boston population, eventually causing Dalton Moretti’s wife to fall ill.  On the second day of her illness she was unable to get out of bed, and soDalton had awoken to a crying baby and a pleading woman in bed next to him. 

He moved to the child’s room to find that she, too, was sick.  Fever burned across her forehead and she refused to take a bottle.  Frustrated,Daltoncalled a neighbor to care for both his wife and infant.

“Can’t you stay home?” His wife begged from under her quilt, too exhausted to move.  She watched him in desperation as he straightened a silk tie around his neck.

“I have a meeting today.”  He scoffed.  “I think that’s more important than playing Mr. Mom for a few hours, don’t you?”

As soon as the neighbor arrived,Daltonrushed out of the apartment.  He slammed the door behind him, fist clenched around the handle of his leather briefcase.  He straightened his collar and took a few deep breaths before walking to the elevator.  

(Source: losermercedino, via chunjimnida)

(via magic-trick)

shauniepoo:

afternoonsnoozebutton:

twelve-jammy-badgers:

Well this was pretty perfect.

lmfaoo omg

(via brighterthan-thesunnnn)