Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #570


It was at this precise moment that Clara realized her lover had been cheating on her. It was the same moment when Charles first noticed that his lover sported an unnatural pallor that spoke of midnight resurrections and a possible guest appearance in an Anne Rice novel. One would think these two negatives would automatically cancel the other and this relationship spat was therefore a draw, but Clara simply could not let things go, her being from The Bronx and all.

Clara: “So, you’ve been shtupping the milkmaid, have you?”

Charles: “What on earth gave you that idea?”

Clara: “You smell like cheese! I don’t smell like cheese. I go to a clinic to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Charles: “Okay, first of all, what the hell kind of clinic is that? You know what, never mind. We only have so much time on this earth. Second, just like I’ve told you a million times, I was raised on a dairy farm and that smell never goes away. I will reek of bovine lactation until the day they shove me in a casket. Speaking of eternal-slumber boxes, have you been in one of those before?”

Clara: “Don’t make this about me. You’re the one looking for cheese in all the wrong places.”

Charles: “You’ve already made it all about you. I’m just pinch-hitting. And you’re avoiding my question and trying to spin the story. Are you a Republican as well?”

Clara: “How dare you accuse me of being Undead!”

Charles: “While I can appreciate the similarities between the two, these are actually separate questions. Let me focus on the first, and I’ll try to be more specific. Do you walk the night and suck the lifeblood out of otherwise innocent people as they make their way home from the Piggly Wiggly supermarket?”

Clara: “Maybe. I’m not signing anything.”

Charles: “I knew it! Ever since that night I got frostbite when we were cuddling and I nearly lost a toe.”

Clara, now desperate, because the romance options are limited on social media when you don’t have a pulse: “But all the therapists say that if you want a healthy relationship, the partners should have outside interests so that their time together is more meaningful. I just have a little hobby that may or may not involve the taking of lives. Surely, we can get past this. If Melania can stay married to Donald Trump despite his conquest of extramarital cheeses, there’s hope for us all.”

Charles: “That last bit is not really a good selling point. Still, I have enjoyed our time together, despite the oddity of me being able to see my breath when I’m around you. But I do have one final question.”

Clara: “Ask away, my beloved. I promise to answer in a way that sounds truthful but still protects my lies in a court of law.”

Charles: “Will we be able to procreate, considering that one of us is undead?”

Clara: “Of course. That’s how Ivana Trump was able to give birth to Donald Trump Junior.”


Previously published, modified and extended for this post.


Later that night, Charles suddenly awoke and clicked on his nightstand lamp.

Charles: “Frigidaire, are you awake?”

Clara: “Of course I am. This is when I normally feed and I should warn you that it’s not the best time to irritate me with discussion topics that can wait until morning. Proceed with caution.”

Charles: “Right, right. I was just wondering. You said an Undead can sire with a Not-Dead and that’s how we got that wretched mess, Donald Stump Junior. But can two Undeads bang a gong successfully?”

Clara: “Of course. That’s how we got Boris Johnson. And Mitch McConnell. Now go back to sleep so your carotid artery will stop pulsing so much. I’m trying to play nice but I do have my limits.”

He clicked off the light.

Then he clicked it back on.

“What about Vladimir Putin? If anyone is the product of an unholy union then-”

“Turn the damn light off! Carotid artery! Right there!”

Click.


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