Lucy, darling, what’s the matter?
Even Ginger senses the storm. Hissing, she arches her back and prepares to jump on Lucy’s lap. Maybe on her face. I stroke Ginger’s back a few times, gently and slowly. She taps my hand with her tail, telling me she will keep an eye on me, and disappears in her corner.
I couldn’t help myself smirking at the mental picture of Lucy’s morning. Her face bears traces of the yesterday make-up. Not a piece of jewellery. The buttons of her blouse are done askew so one corner dangles.
Lucy sinks in the soft chair across the coffee table with a deep sigh. Even seated, her shoulders tower a foot above mine. She crosses her legs with quite power and whams a book on the table.
I‘ll tell you what! This thing! Not even a hundred pages. Why the rainbow on the cover anyway? Not a single story about rainbows…
Now, before I proceed with the melodrama, I should describe the book. Not even a hundred pages, that’s right, but I’ve a short story published in it. Some readers choose the book by its cover and I had to argue long and hard over that rainbow. The publisher said it dazzles the readers. Absurd. More important are the names.
You listening to me? Lucy’s fingers run through the pages. She wets her right pointer with the tip of her tongue, and finally, finds the page where she has scribbled a star with a red pen. Her left hand beats in the air with every word.
Her husband is strong and handsome. His life-changing eyes, and the blue behind those long lashes could be compared only to god’s. He is strong and handsome like the statue of David by Jonathan Swift.
Now Lucy stops reading, wipes her eyes with a theatrical jest and say, I’ve heard about a writer with that name who lived long time ago, surely that was the name, but a sculptor… Lucy rolls her eyes and shakes a head. Her hair, black and wavy, springs up and down as her shoulders shake with laughter.
Good she can’t read my mind. Now I know Jonathan Swift wasn’t a sculptor but didn’t know it then. Has a talented writer got time for triviality? Editors and proof readers! It’s just a silly typo that will be corrected in the second edition.
Don’t deny it! That’s my husband you meant? I’m your best friend! Oh, my god, how it hurts! Lucy repeats the last phrase a couple more times. Her hand, with wide open fingers, drums on her chest.
Lucy, of course it’s not David, darling…I wouldn’t do that to you.
The yesterday mascara is running down her cheeks. I stretch my hand across the coffee table with a box of tissues. Lucy closes the book with a thud. She hides her face in her cupped hands, and a long wail makes its way through the sobs.
I have never thought of her as my best friend. Anyone who share the village gossips, which I use as writing prompts and ideas, qualifies as my best friend.
Lucy, darling, do you want a cuppa?
No, don’t want a cuppa, and I don’t want to live in this village anymore…
Lucy and David have moved in the village five years ago. He is some property developer or other, preoccupied with affairs, business and ladies. Tales of old wives, I don’t believe it.
She popped to mine the very next day and had a cuppa. In the years, I have improved with her family tree. Honestly, I’m more interested in David’s. Names, events, even some photos, it all helps and inspires. I have had my hand in sketching him. Just close my eyes and he is all there. I have asked him to mine for a cuppa, and he pops in whenever Lucy hits the shops, of course.
Some people don’t understand that stories have nothing to do with real names or events. They can’t tell fact from fiction. A while ago I’ve written a story about a cat. I have tried to explain to the neighbours it is not about their cat. Has there only one black cat on the world with a gingery spot between eyes? But no, they could not understand that and left the village.
Ginger’s too old for such a long journey, they said, would you mind taking care after her. You must love cats, with that story of yours.’
And so, I have Ginger.
© 2026 Homo Ignoramus. All rights reserved.