Kitty gets friendly, but HUNU wants to make a musical point
"Excelsior!" continued
Previous PageLinda Honey appeared through the door to the kitchen, looking refreshed and eager to please. “Linda Hu–” I dunno. Third base? I interjected. I got a raised eyebrow, nothing more. “As I was saying, Linda Huchou is my uh, my personal chef. She’ll whip us up some dinner. Thanks, Linda Honey,” she said, and waved her away. And? “And what?” What’s for dinner? “Why, don’t you like Chinese?” That’s racist, Kitty! I said, feigning outrage. She slapped my thigh lightly with her right hand as she sipped her scotchrocks. “Don’t worry, Linda has been studying American ways.” Oh, in the kitchen as well? “Now that’s just plain rotten.” She pfiffed a lock of wayward hair that had sprung free from the bonds of her kefiyah. “You know, you don’t much look like such a picky guy.” I coughed instead of laughed. Dinner was a country ditty of a meal. Linda Honey outdid herself; meatloaf as good as my Aunt Tillie’s, buttered boiled potatoes flecked with parsley, and a thin but tasty gravy. Spinach, more butter. I stayed with the scotchrocks, Governor Kitty moved on to red wine. The homemade apple pie with that just lightly browned lump of cheddar cheese on each slice was perfect. I passed on coffee. She stayed with wine. It was just enough. We pushed away and fled to the couch. Kitty opened the glass cabinet door of her sound system, flicked and spun switches and knobs, and soon there was appropriately low music. Classical. Russian? Yes. Prokofiev! Linda Honey said her goodbyes. I said ‘yes’ to scotchrocks redux. I didn’t drink alone. By the time the echo of the closing door had only just faded into the suddenly triumphant brass crescendo in the first movement, she was in my lap. I sat her deftly to the side with a smile, and told her.
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Previous PageLinda Honey appeared through the door to the kitchen, looking refreshed and eager to please. “Linda Hu–” I dunno. Third base? I interjected. I got a raised eyebrow, nothing more. “As I was saying, Linda Huchou is my uh, my personal chef. She’ll whip us up some dinner. Thanks, Linda Honey,” she said, and waved her away. And? “And what?” What’s for dinner? “Why, don’t you like Chinese?” That’s racist, Kitty! I said, feigning outrage. She slapped my thigh lightly with her right hand as she sipped her scotchrocks. “Don’t worry, Linda has been studying American ways.” Oh, in the kitchen as well? “Now that’s just plain rotten.” She pfiffed a lock of wayward hair that had sprung free from the bonds of her kefiyah. “You know, you don’t much look like such a picky guy.” I coughed instead of laughed. Dinner was a country ditty of a meal. Linda Honey outdid herself; meatloaf as good as my Aunt Tillie’s, buttered boiled potatoes flecked with parsley, and a thin but tasty gravy. Spinach, more butter. I stayed with the scotchrocks, Governor Kitty moved on to red wine. The homemade apple pie with that just lightly browned lump of cheddar cheese on each slice was perfect. I passed on coffee. She stayed with wine. It was just enough. We pushed away and fled to the couch. Kitty opened the glass cabinet door of her sound system, flicked and spun switches and knobs, and soon there was appropriately low music. Classical. Russian? Yes. Prokofiev! Linda Honey said her goodbyes. I said ‘yes’ to scotchrocks redux. I didn’t drink alone. By the time the echo of the closing door had only just faded into the suddenly triumphant brass crescendo in the first movement, she was in my lap. I sat her deftly to the side with a smile, and told her.
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