Cherry’s House

I opened the screen door, the front door was ajar. Music was playing inside the house. “Hello!” I said loudly, “It’s me, Dave. I’m here.” Then I walked in. The living room was nice and cool. No AC, but Cherry kept it shady and aired.

“I’m in the bathroom, honey,” I heard her melodic voice, “Why don’t you get something to drink and wait five minutes. Just five, I promise.”

I opened the fridge, there were some beers, but I was supposed to drive her, so I took I diet Coke. It was nice and cool.

There were phtos of baseball players on he wall, her brothers I think. All tough and Irish looking. And her father, the cop. He was sturdy and rugged, like you see in the movies. She took after her mother, the large italian eyes, the prominent cheekbones, dark skin.

I was done with the can when she walked into the kitchen a good twenty minutes later. She had her make up on, but no wig. Her short hair and broad shoulders left no illusion. She was still biologically a man.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked.

“Yeah, it was okay.”

“How’s the job hunting.”

“Not so good,” I said, “I guy like me in this economy? Forget it.”

“Uhm, I know honey. But things will pick up.”

She disappeared into the bedroom, singing something, but I could not make out what it was. She got out a minute later with her wig on. She looked like a woman now. Beautiful. The song was It’s Raining Men.

“Okay, ready to go.”

I got up and she leaned in to give me a kiss. I leaned back.

“Sorry,” she said, blinking fast.

“No. I am sorry. Come on, Cherry. Let’s go.”

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