Waiting, but not very patienly

I am waiting, but not very patiently, for the next shoe to drop in the Bolton case. I am also waiting to see if that absolute slimebag DeLay somehow wiggles out of his rightful comeuppance. Is there any justice at all in this current totally corrupt Administration? So far it does not appear so. Here is another short story while we wait.



Quentin III

Quentin, age thirty-two, knew he should not still be living with his mother. He also knew, although he seldom thought about it, that he should stop calling her "mummy." Nevertheless, he kept living with her and calling her mummy just as he kept going to work at the accounting office every working day and going with mummy on weekends to the park or a concert or a tea. They never went to the zoo even though Quentin would very much have liked to.
Quentin was not unusually handsome but he was pleasant looking and, of course, immaculately groomed. Mummy saw to that. His suits were tailored, his shirts and ties and stockings and shoes always matched, and he was never without the proper handkerchief tucked carefully into his jacket pocket. On rainy days he carried an umbrella and in winter never went without his galoshes. On this particular day he certainly did not need them. It was a glorious Spring day. Sunlight filtered through the emerging leaves. Birds engaged themselves noisily in their annual rituals of courtship. The air was crisp and clean. The wind coming across Lake Michigan was gentle.
Quentin, enchanted, walked briskly, looking both to the right and left so as not to miss anything. He tipped his hat symbolically to the elegantly attired ladies he passed and
continued his businesslike walk to the station, arriving punctually as always. The only available seat was toward the rear of the car. Quentin crossed his legs and leaned against the window. Directly across from him sat a dumpy looking woman whose eyes were crossed. Quentin believed she was staring at him but could not be certain. Seated next to him was an enormously fat man wearing two coats and holding a heavy shopping bag. Between his legs were two similar bags. Through the window, past the cross-eyed lady, Quentin could see a shabbily dressed old woman kicking a pebble in front of her and mumbling to no one in particular as she ambled slowly along to no apparent destination.
When the car stopped at the next station Quentin rose to offer his seat to a woman carrying a baby. She smiled in gratitude and he moved as far back as possible in the now overcrowded car and stood with his back to the wall. Even more passengers were crowded into the car at the next station and the one after that. The passengers became so crowded that Quentin found himself standing belly to belly with an unusually attractive young woman. Embarrassed, he pretended not to notice; but he surreptitiously studied her. A lovely face with unusually clear skin and the most beautiful large brown eyes Quentin had ever seen. Her auburn hair shone beautifully even in the dim light of the car as it passed momentarily through a tunnel. She wore an attractive gray suit jacket highlighted with a light red
kerchief and an oh-so-subtle but sensuous perfume. As the top of her head came only to Quentin's chin the rest of her was quite invisible to him. They stood forced together by the mass of humanity for several minutes as the train shook and jostled along the track, Quentin becoming more embarrassed by the moment. Suddenly the woman looked up and smiled at him, saying in a lovely musical voice, "Perhaps we ought to get married." Totally flustered Quentin blushed and pretended to laugh, then averted his eyes. "I didn't mean to embarrass you," she apologized, continuing to smile.
"It's quite alright," he answered as casually as he could.
"Bye," she said, "Here's my stop." As she made her way out Quentin could see she had a figure to match her face: long slender legs, a woman's hips, and breasts that filled out her jacket to perfection. He wondered who she was and craned to see which direction she went. It was no use. The train carried him away before he could locate her on the crowded street.
Quentin entered his office with an uncharacteristic grin, still thinking of the strange encounter. He forgot about it for a time when his work absorbed him but then, during his lonely lunch, he thought of her again, wondering if she took the same train every day. He remembered where she had departed. He tried to remember exactly where she had boarded. He knew he would look for her again and again.
"Quentin," his mother said at dinner that evening. "You've scarcely touched your dinner. And you haven't said a word about your day. Is something the matter? Do you feel well?"
Quentin looked at his mother with her beautifully done hair and tasteful gown, her strands of pearls and diamond rings, the jade brooch on her ample bosom, her carefully manicured nails and the look of concern in her eyes. He glanced around the apartment with its Chinese rugs, his long departed father's netsukes lined on the mantlepiece, the Japanese prints on the walls, the celadon vase on its pedestal, the luxuriousness of his mother's home.
"Sorry mum...er, mother," he mumbled, looking down at his poached salmon , "I was thinking of getting married."