Tea Party.

I felt completely out of place, walking down the clean, landscaped rural street. The sound of sprinklers and lawn mowers filling the early morning air. The grass still wet with dew, dogs being walked by stay at home mothers, passing us by with a smile and well mannered good morning. School buses stopping at corners, picking up the kiddies, for their fun filled school day. The engine roaring loudly, as the big yellow bus passes us by. Kids, with their noses pressed up on the glass, waving with big innocent smiles. I feel like a convict walking through the kindergarten playground. Ill fitted for this lovely morning scene.

As I step onto Mr. Suburbans well manicured lawn, I cringe. Visualizing myself as this big burly man stepping on sand castles at the beach. Little cries from the grass as I take each step. Like there’s a spot light on me, pointing me out as an unwelcome guest.

At the time, we had come all the way out here, to shower. An empty house, where we could shield ourselves, and pretend, if only for an afternoon, that we were okay. A desperate attempt to play house, like two little girls setting up a tea party. Little china cups filled with denial and lies. Small rectangle cookies made of rat poison and cockroaches. Sugared with self-loathing and miss placed direction.

It’s easy enough to get inside, being that the window in the living room, has a small break in it. Right in the bottom corner. Big enough to get my hand through, and unlatch the window, without tearing my skin up with glass shards. Pushing myself through that small window, leaves me with a resonating anxiety. Like every sound I make is heard by the neighbours, and the police have already been called. She, skips right to the kitchen, and rummages through the fridge. I honestly think this girl is half man, because I’ve never met a chick who can eat at a time like this. Reminds me of those stories you read in true crime novels, where the killer stays in the house after his blood thirsty crime, and fixes himself a roast beef sandwich. Drinks a can of Pepsi, and leaves his prints on the twisted pop can. Bringing irony to the darkest of moments.

I choose to take a quick tour of the house, just to be absolutely sure Mr. Suburban isn’t here. For all we know he’s in the shower, or standing behind his bedroom door, breathing heavily with a gun in his hand. As I tread quietly up the hardwood steps, my heart’s beating out of my chest. She, clanging in the kitchen, as  I hit the last stair and quietly check the two bedrooms and bathroom. Nothing. I let out a deep sigh of relief, as I sit on the neatly made bed in the spare bedroom. Turning to my right, I see the dresser, and remember something Mr. Suburban had said the night we stayed here last.

‘Don’t go in my drawers. I mean it Angie.’

Only one thing can happen after someone says something like that to you, in a circumstance such as my own. You go through the damn drawers. I know, I’m such an asshole.

Opening the top drawer, I see two things.

One being, a medium sized plastic baggie, filled with white magic mushrooms.

The second thing being, a purple Crown Royal bag, filled with anything but, a bottle of mediocre whisky.

I call She, and she comes bounding up the stairs, half a bagel sticking out of her cute french mouth.

‘Baby, look,’ I say as she leans over my shoulder and peaks into the treasure chest. I grab the velvet purple bag and drop it’s contents onto the bed beside me.

A respectably sized bundle of cash, held together by elastic bands.

She drops her jaw, and looks at me wide eyed, ‘Angie…let me count it. Please?’

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