The Iron Nymph - Another Story by Ace Toscano

I don't write that much anymore, though you think I would, since time is winding down. Not that I'm sick or anything, but I recently turned 65 and even the most optimistic forecasts don't have me reaching 80. My old man died at 69, ten years after he was stricken with cancer of the colon. It took ten years for the cancer to hit his liver and on from there. His father died young, and so on and so forth. So, realistically, I'm a short timer. But there are so many distractions - WeTopia, Hidden Chronicles, Solitaire Blitz, Bejeweled Blitz, Solitaire, Pyramid Solitaire, and on and on and on. Then there's my website and the hundreds of pages I maintain, though, I confess, I'm not very vigilant about that except for my pool pages. Still, every once in a while, I get an idea for a story and I start working on it. I don't labor over each word like a skilled artisan. I just plow through it, hoping to get it finished. Which is what I've done yet again. I'm pretty lucky, really. Some of us 65 year olds don't have enough brain power left to write a story, even a lousy one. So, I'll go with that. Here's the story:

The Iron Nymph

by Ace Toscano

 

Marge was hot.

Not Angelina-Jolie, Charlize Theron, Maria Sharapova hot.

Not sweaty, ninety-nine degrees in the friggin' shade hot.

Marge was snorting, snarling, spitting, teeth-grinding, red-in-the-face hot.

Marge. Was. Pissed.

And, she was holding it in. Which wasn't good.

She hadn't said a friggin' word since Kalispell.

She hadn't been making any of her usual casual observations about the weather or the scenery -- oh, how she loved the Montana scenery -- during the drive south, nor had she graced him with any of the little reassurances she habitually served up, like reaching over to gently touch his hand as he held the wheel, while softly declaring, "Love you, Cuter."

Cuter - that was her nickname for him. He called her Dolly, because she was and always had been, a doll, that is. She'd been a doll when he met her thirty years before when they were sixteen, and she was a doll, now. He couldn't remember exactly how long she'd been calling him Cuter, but he believed it had started shortly after he had confided to her that, growing up, his father had enjoyed telling him that he had a face only a mother could love. She had never thought much of his old man and after hearing that she had thought even less of him. Of course, in truth, Johnny really wasn't much to look at, but, if he pointed that out to Marge, she'd always insist "You're cute to me. That's all that matters."

But, he probably wasn't looking that good to her, today. At least, she wasn't saying so. She hadn't even squawked when he made an unannounced detour West on I-90 to St. Regis where he left her alone in the camper for three hours while he tried his luck on an unheralded stretch of the Clark's Fork he had heard about from Freddie, the guy in the Whitefish fly shop.

And she hadn't done much yakkin' during dinner at the OK Cafe, at least not to him. She spoke to the waitress long enough to order and later to rave about the "wonderful" grilled salmon. Not to be outdone, Johnny had complimented the chef on the "divine" burgers, fries and onion rings which really were pretty good. He usually didn't get a chance to eat that kind of stuff, not with Marge actively making sure he didn't over-indulge his artery clogging fetishes. But, for the time being, she apparently didn't give a shit if he died or not, so, he had stuffed himself with all the high-cholesterol food he could stand. He kicked himself later for not having added a couple eggs to his order.

Marge hadn't even reminded him to take his pills.

She was extremely pissed.

Of course, it wasn't a mystery why she was pissed. She was pissed on account of the way things had gone down with Jeannie Logan.

For the rest of the story, go here.