Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom?

She was the wife of a ship captain. He sailed out of San Francisco in the 1850’s, from a bay so full of ships that there was barely room to maneuver. The first time she saw him…she missed her boat because her phone kept dinging.

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Walking away I pulled my hood up over her head to guard from the biting cold wind and rain. I walked down the street wanting to be anywhere but the court house. I was tired of waiting and waiting and waiting. What did they do behind those closed doors? Why did every single blessed thing take so long. I just wanted to go home and read a good book by the fire and watch the rain. I wanted to be with my children. I wanted it to be summer and meet my girlfriends after work for drinks at one of their favorite places by the river and watch the young testosterone laden assholes showing off in their ski boats and smell the mix of wild flowers, red wine…rewrite. 

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He came by in a tight fitting black tee and jeans that actually were from this century. He was a Roman god, a movie star, a gracefully aging male model. Women turned to look at him. But it just seemed that the high maintence ones edging on middle age who who flocked around him like groupies. Was it the money, his good looks? He was different with them. All flattery and dazzling toothpaste commercial smiles. Then I realized that he was just like them. Birds preening, always doing the mating dance. He should have been in the court of Louis the 14th. He should have been a fop and a dandy in velvets and heels. But with his build he should have been a Viking with his golden hair in braids and the biggest horns on his head with the biggest ship in the fleet, the biggest, well, the biggest everything. He was a professional show off. P.T. Barnum would have marketed Sammy as “The Perfect Male.”

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Nigel continued to rattle on. “I bet Sammy has black satin sheets in his bachelor pad. I bet he has a water bed. Does anyone have those anymore? I remember half the girls I dated had them. They used the excuse it was easier to move. Right. Always gave me a backache. I hated those things. Man, you don’t want to be in one of those things with a hangover. It’s like being seasick only worse. Death is easier than a hangover in a water bed. Believe me, I know first hand, and death is much much easier. I’ll tell you a bucket on the side of the bed wasn’t for bailing out water. What was that store that sold waterbeds, Night Comfort. The guy had commercials on late night TV and read letters from inmates at Folsom Prison who were dreaming about when they got out with their old ladies and their trusty waterbed. Ohhhhhh baby. Ray, I think his name was Ray, or maybe Chuck but I forgot what his last name is. And what sort of grown man calls himself Sammy? Sam maybe or Samuel but Sammy? Come on, you call a 4 year old or a dog Sammy but not a grown man. I thought he’d grown out of that once he got to Stanford.”

I turned around and glared at Nigel. If he wasn’t already dead I would have considered killing him.

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By the way November is National Novel Writing Month… I am working on a novel or two, or three, but sometimes I get distracted.

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~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman

 

 

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