Bea and Me

A man and his dog. A time out of place. In a world neither understands. Or is likely to tolerate.

The day starts like most others. By which I mean with a head full of bees, an arse stinging to match and the temperament to go with both. 

The scratch at the door is both welcoming and upsetting. I know who it must be.

Why she can't learn to use the bell like anyone else is beyond me. But that is the case and those, in a heap on the floor are my clothes. And both I need to deal with now.

The mirror and the clock are the only two wall adornments in my room. A quick check of both confirms the obvious. One is tired, worn and out of step and the - well, you get the gist.

Clothes hurried on and hair shoved vaguely into place, I open the door. No need to check the peep hole. As I thought, her elegant, tan frame glides over the threshold. Bea has a way of attracting her presence in most rooms. Demanding it in others.

"Ciao?, hairy arse." I goad. "Why not just wander in?"
"Very good. Just like a local." Sarcastically spat out.
"'Spose you'd know. What with the laziness, casual thievery and the all-round reluctance to do anything other than wind me up."
"Piss off."
"Ah, local too then..." This could go on for a while. I yield first. "So what's up?" I ask before a back-handed reply. "You're sooner than expected. Summin's up right?"
"Right."
"Elaborate."
"Something from the past. That's all I know."
"Nice one, Sherlock." More a mutter than an insult. My words and thoughts trail off. She just murmurs.

Then the door buzzer rings. Crap. Bea isn't often wrong. And when she is, it's usually for dragging her arse on the carpet. Thankfully, this time she hasn't.

Oh, Bea is a Doberman by the way. And won't leave me alone.

The End

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