Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #391

Katharine, left: “Let’s make something perfectly clear. I’m the one who gets to sleep with everybody in this boarding house. Not you. Understood?”

Ginger, right: “Actually, no. Why do you get all the dibs around here? We both have the same equipment and we both have bills to pay. And all men are stupid and horny, all the time. It’s not like there’s a shortage. You work your angle and I’ll work mine.”

Katharine: “But I’m top drawer. I have the Upper East Coast accent that drives men wild.”

Ginger: “You have a vagina. It really doesn’t go much beyond that.”

Katharine: “Says the tramp with the blonde hair.”

Ginger: “Naturally blonde, you skank.”

Katharine: “Oh, please. That mess is about as natural as you walking into a church without it bursting into flames. Next thing you know, everyone is running and screaming and trying to keep the holy cookies from getting burnt. Not that you would know anything about saving your cookies.”

Ginger: “Why, I oughta-”

[Tentative knock on the door.]

Katharine: “I suppose that’s for you. The knock sounds desperate.”

Ginger: “He’s probably afraid it might be you answering. The weather report said there was a cold front blowing in and he’s hoping it doesn’t mean that you’re back in town.”

Katharine: “I’ll have you know that my powder box is quite warm and inviting, indeed. Everyone says so on the comment cards.”

Ginger: “That’s not what I hear at the beauty salon. Most of the employees refuse to give you a pedicure because they’re terrified that you might hiccup and they will get sucked into the vast wasteland of your broke-down playground and never be seen again.”

[Slightly less tentative knock on door, followed by a fake cough, letting the ladies know that a real person has come a knockin’ and not an email spam bot.]

Katharine: “You’re boring me. Go let the man in.”

Ginger: “Why me? You’re closer than I am. And how do you know it’s a man, come to think of it?”

Katharine: “Well, as you can’t help but keep pointing out, I’ve answered a lot of doors. I’m an expert in knocking, among other things. Besides, he’s already coughing and clearly under the weather, so it won’t matter if he catches something nasty from your twitter feed.”

Ginger sighs, then marches over and opens the door. “Can I help you?”

Coughy Knocker: “Yes, my name is Spencer Tracy and I was looking for-”

Katharine, shoving Ginger to the side: “I’ll take this one. You can go to the store and buy some more bleach.”

Ginger: “But they won’t let me buy any more. Apparently, there’s a quota.”

Katharine: “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Go!”

Ginger smirks and then sashays out the door, despite only wearing an Art Deco dressing gown and nothing underneath. This is not the first time she has done such. The folks at Red Lobster have long since stopped gasping when she arrives in such a manner.

Katharine: “How kind of you to drop by, Spencer. How can I assist you with this day? Would you like to see my catalog?”

Spencer: “Oh, I’ve already seen it on the weather report. No need. But what I am interested in is establishing a rumor-fueled relationship that will last for thirty years and keep the gossip-columnists guessing, thereby disguising the fact that both of us rather enjoy exploring powder boxes that look just like our own.”

Katharine: “Say no more. Follow me to that quaint Art Deco desk over in the corner. I already have the contracts laid out, ready to sign. Would you like some tea while we review?”

Spencer: “I’m thinking whisky might be a better fit.”

Katharine: “My, you really do know the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you?”


Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnnywood Manor”. Considerably revised and extended for this post. And yes, I realize the trivia got a bit deep with this one, but I was having a swell time scribbling, and really, that’s the whole point…


10 replies »

  1. My my. Powder boxes?? I didn’t actually realize that about the mysterious Mr. Tracy nor the quizzical Ms. Hepburn, but hey! I’ll take YOUR word for it. Now I had a little dialogue of mine own going on. Because I recognize the expressions on those pusses above (I’m talking about their faces in case someone doesn’t know what a ‘puss’’s more than a cat, but not the rather nasty meaning Americans foisted on that simple and innocent word. Pussy CAT… oh um…how unseemly. I raveled a thread on another’s comment section. My bad.)
    G: Give it BACK!
    K: What are you talking about? *bats eyelashes in an innocent manner*
    K: No.
    G: I’m going to tell if you don’t.
    K: I still don’t know what you’re talking about! Really! (sly look from beneath those wobbly eyelashes)
    G: Okay then. You asked for it! MA??!
    K: Oh shut up. Here’s your old robe. Anything to get the site of those f-ugly pajama thingies out of view!
    G: I win.

    The above scenario was played out between myself and my siblings more than once. That’s how I recognized the look on those faces. There’s no common ground when one loathes a brother or a sister with hatred only the adolescent understands…


    • Ah, the sibling scenarios, boiling with great drama, especially since we each knew exactly which buttons to push and we would bang on those buttons with gusto. Until one of the parents would wander in, smack us all upside the head, and then carry on, leaving the room filled with quiet reflection instead of accusations and lies. Of course, the reflection often turned into thoughts on revenge and the whole thing would flare up again the next day…


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