The Stranger

I guess it was my cousin who met them.  Brought them home.  I guess it was at some bar, some dark hole in the wall.  Who knows?  Now, in my kitchen, because gods forbid he take them to his place, sat four men, smoking foul-smelling cigs, blowing blue smoke all over my pristine domicile, chattering like monkeys, passing a bottle of tequila back and forth.  My tequila.  My special occasion, just for sipping tequila.  This is not the load me up and let’s shoot stuff…and they were tipping it back like water.


‘So, what’s going on?” I asked.


I was met with jovial laughter and much banter.  Three of the boys started to talk at once.  All I heard was a muddle.


The silent one glanced up from flicking his ash into the bowl set aside for that purpose.  Of course, with my lungs, there wasn’t an ashtray to be had in here, for a reason.


The taller one raised his glass to me.  “Breakfast.”


I rolled my eyes.  “Seriously?”


My cousin fell off his stool trying to get to me.  Trying to reassure me.  Trying to coerce me to join in.  It was too late though.  The smoke was biting into me now.  I had to leave.


I waved.  Covered my face.  Turned and ran.


That’s how I met him.  That was my first introduction.


Published by

Tabitha Low

Writer, Artist, Journey Creatrix