photo credit: mdid, 2007
While Katrina was at rehab she found someone else. On Wednesday, I lost her pet monkey when my hands shook and couldn’t hold onto the leash. I called out for an hour, went home, drank and made posters. I had no pictures, because I had torn every photo of her; most of them included Pluto. What I taped to poles were just words. “Help Find Pluto” and Katrina’s phone number.
On Thursday, it was misting but I’d never seen Katrina so crisp and clear.
“How’s Pluto?”
“We should have a drink.”
“Oh.”
It’s early but we talked the waitress into making Bloody Marys while she yapped about her children getting ready for school by themselves. Katrina was crying. “9:00 AM and I have to deal with this.” She gulped her drink and her tears rolled onto the lip of the glass. I
touched her hand. “Damn, you,” she said, pulled away, then stopped and moved hers back on top of mine.
Something across the street scampered in the corner of my eye and I bolted up. As I raced toward an alley; I knew there was no escape; the wet bricks shot my feet over my head and I flew like the wind knocked out of me. Katrina was a few seconds behind but the monkey stepped over me and leaped onto her back.
“I think he’s home. I don’t think it’s easy out here,” I said.
“Daniel,” she said. “I didn’t want to leave.”
