to be super peeved-irked-mega-mad.”
“That’s your cat?”
“Oh, no. My doctors won’t let me have pets. I’m home from school and house-sitting for my friend. And not letting her cat run away. That’s my biggest job,” she added tearfully. “Not letting Little Pat run away.”
“You’re not very good at it,” he pointed out, then was instantly sorry when she burst into tears. There was no excuse to be such a puke; he’d been dazzled, and spoke without thinking. “I mean, it’s not your fault. Since I almost ran Little Pat over.”
“With your Better Plumbing van,” she agreed tearfully.
“Yeah, with my van. Listen, Little Pat will come down. They always do. It doesn’t seem like it, but they do. You just gotta wait.”
“No, I have to rescue him and get her back for his medicine. I’m supposed to give it to him every four hours.” The blonde checked her watch. “It’s already five minutes late! I’ve only been home from school for eight hours and I’ve lost Little Pat and broke the dishwasher!”
“Dish—never mind. Listen, what’s the rush? What’s Little Pat gonna do, blow up?”
“Yowie-zowie, I hope not.” She blinked. “Probably get sicker. They all do, it’s weird and sad. My friend—we grew up in sort of the same place except she didn’t live there like I did—she always picks these sad sickly animals from the shelters. Once she had a two legged dog! And the legs it had? Were on the same side! She carried it all over the place. She had this little pillow for it.”
“What happened to it?” Clive asked, interested in spite of himself.
“The pillow?”
“The dog.”
“My sister accidentally killed him with a clothes dryer. Oh gosh.” Her eyes widened and she went the color of cheese. “You don’t think Little Pat’s going to die, do you? What if he dies? I just couldn’t tell Cathie a fourth pet died on my watch.”
“Wait, four?”
The blonde was starting to hyperventilate. This was distracting, since her gorgeous high breasts were practically shimmering at him beneath her red shirt. He managed to look at everything except that. Tree. Sidewalk. Poop on same. Van tires. Ants. Ankles. Knees. Trim-yet-shapely waist. But not her boobs! So he wasn’t sure when it happened.
* * *
“When what happened?” Hi-my-name-is-Anne asked. She was leaning forward, resting her chin on the shelf created by her fingers. “Did the cat come down?”
“I wish,” he sighed.
“Time! Ladies, move one table to your left. Gentlemen, sit tight. Go! Go! Go!”
“These things always make me feel like I’m storming the beach at Normandy,” Hi-my-name-is-Stacy said. “Hi, Clive. Nice to meet you.”
“How was I supposed to know she was crazy?” he demanded, absently waving a hand for her to sit. “She sure seemed un-crazy. Until, you know.”
* * *
“What do you think you are doing?”
The sheer coldness of the question made him step back. The blonde wasn’t wringing her hands or staring up into the tree or fretting out loud or fidgeting or any of the things he had just watched her do; the blonde was standing stock-still, her hands curled into loose fists.
She was staring at him.
No. That wasn’t right. She was glaring at him.
“Uh.” He paused. Thought about the question. “Uh, what?”
“You must not get her that excited. It makes work for me.”
“Makes work for who?”
“Although I, for one, would not shed one tear if that devil-cat were to perish.” She glanced up into the tree. “Little Pat,” she sneered.
“Are you all right?”
“Certainly. No need to ask if you are; how all right could you be if you ride around in a van with NO ONE’S BETTER THAN BETTER stenciled on the side?”
“I think I’ll go.”
“No.”
“Beg pardon?”
“You have a ladder in there, correct? You cannot always assume your customers will have exactly what you need.”
“That’s right, I can’t. That’s kind of the core of my business,
“That’s your cat?”
“Oh, no. My doctors won’t let me have pets. I’m home from school and house-sitting for my friend. And not letting her cat run away. That’s my biggest job,” she added tearfully. “Not letting Little Pat run away.”
“You’re not very good at it,” he pointed out, then was instantly sorry when she burst into tears. There was no excuse to be such a puke; he’d been dazzled, and spoke without thinking. “I mean, it’s not your fault. Since I almost ran Little Pat over.”
“With your Better Plumbing van,” she agreed tearfully.
“Yeah, with my van. Listen, Little Pat will come down. They always do. It doesn’t seem like it, but they do. You just gotta wait.”
“No, I have to rescue him and get her back for his medicine. I’m supposed to give it to him every four hours.” The blonde checked her watch. “It’s already five minutes late! I’ve only been home from school for eight hours and I’ve lost Little Pat and broke the dishwasher!”
“Dish—never mind. Listen, what’s the rush? What’s Little Pat gonna do, blow up?”
“Yowie-zowie, I hope not.” She blinked. “Probably get sicker. They all do, it’s weird and sad. My friend—we grew up in sort of the same place except she didn’t live there like I did—she always picks these sad sickly animals from the shelters. Once she had a two legged dog! And the legs it had? Were on the same side! She carried it all over the place. She had this little pillow for it.”
“What happened to it?” Clive asked, interested in spite of himself.
“The pillow?”
“The dog.”
“My sister accidentally killed him with a clothes dryer. Oh gosh.” Her eyes widened and she went the color of cheese. “You don’t think Little Pat’s going to die, do you? What if he dies? I just couldn’t tell Cathie a fourth pet died on my watch.”
“Wait, four?”
The blonde was starting to hyperventilate. This was distracting, since her gorgeous high breasts were practically shimmering at him beneath her red shirt. He managed to look at everything except that. Tree. Sidewalk. Poop on same. Van tires. Ants. Ankles. Knees. Trim-yet-shapely waist. But not her boobs! So he wasn’t sure when it happened.
* * *
“When what happened?” Hi-my-name-is-Anne asked. She was leaning forward, resting her chin on the shelf created by her fingers. “Did the cat come down?”
“I wish,” he sighed.
“Time! Ladies, move one table to your left. Gentlemen, sit tight. Go! Go! Go!”
“These things always make me feel like I’m storming the beach at Normandy,” Hi-my-name-is-Stacy said. “Hi, Clive. Nice to meet you.”
“How was I supposed to know she was crazy?” he demanded, absently waving a hand for her to sit. “She sure seemed un-crazy. Until, you know.”
* * *
“What do you think you are doing?”
The sheer coldness of the question made him step back. The blonde wasn’t wringing her hands or staring up into the tree or fretting out loud or fidgeting or any of the things he had just watched her do; the blonde was standing stock-still, her hands curled into loose fists.
She was staring at him.
No. That wasn’t right. She was glaring at him.
“Uh.” He paused. Thought about the question. “Uh, what?”
“You must not get her that excited. It makes work for me.”
“Makes work for who?”
“Although I, for one, would not shed one tear if that devil-cat were to perish.” She glanced up into the tree. “Little Pat,” she sneered.
“Are you all right?”
“Certainly. No need to ask if you are; how all right could you be if you ride around in a van with NO ONE’S BETTER THAN BETTER stenciled on the side?”
“I think I’ll go.”
“No.”
“Beg pardon?”
“You have a ladder in there, correct? You cannot always assume your customers will have exactly what you need.”
“That’s right, I can’t. That’s kind of the core of my business,
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