A Wicked Choice Read Online Free PDF Page A

flower garden popping with color grows just next to the front and side of the house. Inside, the walls are painted with vibrant oranges and reds in some rooms, and sea greens and blues in others. We have Art Nouveau vintage posters and batik wall hangings peppering the wall. I pick flowers from the garden as often as I can and put them in colorful glass vases in the kitchen and dining area. I love this old house. It’s lively and festive throughout. As I enter the front door, I glance around and smile.
    “Hello, Cheerio,” Cam answers absentmindedly, pushing back his hair. He’s sitting in the small dining area surrounded by books about the cycles of violence in men and charts depicting something called the ‘Hearts and Flowers’ phase. Huge picture windows flank both corners of the paper strewn room. His laptop glows, awaiting its next task.
    “Hello, Cam.” I plant a friendly kiss on top of his head.
    My two cats, Mac and Jack (named after one of the best beers in the Pacific Northwest), stroll into the room. Now, you might think this is odd, but Mac and Jack speak to me using thought bubble-like communication. I can understand them just fine. Mac and Jack are twin ruddy Abyssinians. Mac, a sturdy football player of a cat with short reddish hair ticked with black, rubs against my legs suggestively with all the ardor of a lover.
    He’s been like that all day , he thinks.
    Head in the books , Jack, his spry, sleek brother adds.
    No time for rubs or treats , Mac offers.
    Can’t be bothered , Jack continues.
    When are you going to feed us? Mac finishes. These boys get to the point of things as quick as a flicked whisker. Just give me the news and move on: that’s their motto. Mac flips his tail for emphasis and rubs his small cheek on the corner of the cupboard, watching as I retrieve the bag of cat food.
    After sprinkling the dry food in their porcelain bowls decorated with cat stick figures, the boys protest, like they always do.
    Pure crap … Mac sniffs. Do we look like we were born to eat wooden crunchies?
    We like raw , Jack continues, licking his paws dismissively. Think of cats in the wild .
    “Cats in the wild do not get three square meals a day,” I retort. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cam look up with a bemused smile on his face. I continue speaking to the cats. “And besides, you get your bit of raw for breakfast.” I have been making cat food, a mixture of ground turkey, sprouts, yams, and omega fish oil, for them since they were tiny kittens. It keeps their coats glossy and their bodies healthy. The mixture is packed in ice cube trays in the freezer. One cube each per day is all they are allowed. I shake my head at their protests as they settle down to their meal of the dry, supplemental food.
    Moseying back to the table where Cam is sitting, I sit down next to him, pressing muffin crumbs from his white paper napkin onto my index finger tip and popping them in my mouth. “Hey, do you have a minute?”
    “Not really. What’s up?”
    I scoff inwardly at his mixed message. “It’s about our getaway.”
    “Fuck! Now what?” he says, perturbed. “What do you have to do this goddamned time?”
    Now I have his full attention.
    Cam and I are in a tense place lately. When we first moved in with each other, we got along well, like great friends, but lately we’re having major discord. Cam says it’s because I can’t or won’t stand up for myself. He sits in rooms night after night with men who assault their wives with varying intensity, with little or no protest from the women. He wants me to tell him what I want, not just agree with him. I want him to love me as I am. I mean, this is who he moved in with, right? As a result, we’ve been arguing more, communicating less. What started as a congenial, friendly connection with fairly decent sex, has slowly disintegrated into an on-edge, ready-to-shatter soap opera of a relationship. Some days I think we should just break up and get it over with.