Act 3, Scene 4, The Final Scene: Long Beach. I open my door. I put my things on the table that is there for the purpose of holding my things. I turn on the light to the living room. Ringo (cat) keeps the floor bed warm for me, even though I am determined to sleep on the bed bed. But Ringo has an offering laid out on the blanket. It looks like maybe one of his plush toys infused with catnip. Nope, look closer. Is it Ringro excrement, which he likes to distribute - randomly - from time to time? No, that's not it. It's the giant flying cockroachfrom a few weeks ago. Ringo has destroyed it, sending it to its final resting place: my comforter cover, its red-yellow wings still and useless. I put an empty plastic bowl over the giant flying dead cockroach. I lift the blanket from below, ensuring that if the cockroach is suddenly revived, he/she will have nowhere to fly. I carry the entire balled-up blanket with its bowled-over dead vermin to the balcony. I hurl the whole sad mess over the balcony, holding on to the blanket tightly. The bowl and the roach fall to the wet grass, sickly and never coming back. Ringo doesn't speak to me all night long.
Act 3, Scene 4, The Final Scene: Long Beach. I open my door. I put my things on the table that is there for the purpose of holding my things. I turn on the light to the living room. Ringo (cat) keeps the floor bed warm for me, even though I am determined to sleep on the bed bed. But Ringo has an offering laid out on the blanket. It looks like maybe one of his plush toys infused with catnip. Nope, look closer. Is it Ringro excrement, which he likes to distribute - randomly - from time to time? No, that's not it. It's the giant flying cockroachfrom a few weeks ago. Ringo has destroyed it, sending it to its final resting place: my comforter cover, its red-yellow wings still and useless. I put an empty plastic bowl over the giant flying dead cockroach. I lift the blanket from below, ensuring that if the cockroach is suddenly revived, he/she will have nowhere to fly. I carry the entire balled-up blanket with its bowled-over dead vermin to the balcony. I hurl the whole sad mess over the balcony, holding on to the blanket tightly. The bowl and the roach fall to the wet grass, sickly and never coming back. Ringo doesn't speak to me all night long.
No comments:
Post a Comment