window cleaning Sherwood park

Posted by sharif on August 30th, 2019

window cleaning Edmonton

He now found himself walking around the town aimlessly, as often he would, stopping at a few guesthouses, having a beer here and there a glass of red wine, ate a ham sandwich at one disco bar, listened to a Neil Diamond's song, one he became found of, 'Cracklin' Rosie,' he had heard it before, it wasn't all that new, but it was circulating throughout Germany, and popular, it made him happy, sad, and drifty in a nice kind of way, Cracklin' Rosie was his bottle of beer, or wine his lover for the night, the girl he could have, because the one at home was the one he never did have, or would have. The exchange was a reasonable one he thought, as reasonable as he'd get.

Then he up and left the bar, told himself it was time to go back home, he told himself he'd have to make sure the gun was empty when he got home, he couldn't sleep another night thinking she might be as dangerous as she says she feels.

He walked though the apartment door, "Good Evening," he told his wife, the main room was dimly lit, and he was lightly drunk.

He was very careful not to disrupt her mood.

"Go back out and get drunker," she told him, "come back when I'm sleeping, I'm going back to St. Paul, Minnesota tomorrow."

He looked at her, she was curled up in a corner of the leather couch, with a cigarette in her hand, and he noticed three burn holes in the coach.

"Look at what you're doing, I'll have to pay for the whole coach now (it was a furnished apartment)."

She looked, "I think you did that a few nights ago!" she said, indifferently, "so don't blame me for your drunkenness, you probably fell to sleep."

"Did you take your medication?" he asked.

"Can't you tell, I feel and look like a zombie?"

Sherwood reached up high on the bookcase, took his 45-automatic down, pulled the clip of bullets out.

"I see you're taking my advice, smart boy." She commented.

He had a beer in the refrigerator, he took it out, opened it up, sat in a chair, and smoked a Camel Cigarette, and dark a Beck's beer halfway down, and let out a deep hidden sigh.

He tried to write a paragraph in his new book but everything seemed complicated. He crossed this out and that out until he couldn't really see what was what, then dated it "July 5, 1974" and leaned back in his chair.

He had come to the conclusion he was powerless in helping her, and for himself, he was becoming perhaps codependent, if not her on him, him on her, or both on each other, and he was fighting for his own preservation, to keep his own identity, before she swallowed it up, and he had none. They were like two drowning souls in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean without a life raft.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes what?" she replied.

"Yes, I'll find a ride to the train station in Aschaffenburg or Munster or Dieburg, one of the three, most likely, Munster by Dieburg, it's closer, and buy your tickets for your departure, it will take you directly to 'Frankfurt am Main,' and you from there, can take a taxi to the airport, you got your passport, that's all you need, and I'll give you some money tomorrow, I'll go to the bank and take out whatever we got."

"Give me a drink of your beer," she asked. She looked happy again. She had left him before, a number of times only to call him back up, wanting to return to wherever he was. But his thinking was different now; he knew it was a one way road for her, she couldn't live on a two-way, and it would be a life of endurance, and more dangers by the passing of each year.

"I knew that would force you to send me home." She said.

"What?" he asked.

"Telling you I'm getting more dangerous."

"It's a long night until tomorrow," he said, adding, "What do you want now?"

"Let's go to bed, and do it!"

"I can't," he said.

Carla laughed heartily, "I swear you're homosexual, and you like men don't you."

He shook his head, whispered to himself, as she went into the bedroom, and he moved over to the couch to sleep the night away, "I'll wait (again the mood was dead)."

A New Morning

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