That Writing Thing in February - Day 12

One Bite

The wind swept down the boulevard carrying with it last night's detritus. Detritus? You know debris, waste, refuse, rubbish, litter, scrap, rubble and so on. I say detritus because my pal MikeWJ said I didn't know how to use it in a sentence. You owe me $50 Mike. And detritus is just one of those words you'd expect to find in a noir discourse. My God am I a literary marvel or a homocide detective? Good to know I've got something to fall back on if this detecting thing doesn't work out.

And it wasn't working out. As I gazed out of my apartment window at the rising sun in the east (notice how the last chapter ended with a sunset in the west? That's continuity, folks.) I thought to myself that after 12 days I was no further ahead in finding the murderer of the 3 Amigos than I was on day 1.

Something had to change. Somehow I'd wandered off the trail searching for a man called Horse. All I knew was I'd better get myself back up in the saddle. 

First, I thought, I'd trot into the kitchen for some breakfast. As I did, I scanned the bed and there was Dylan, lying peacefully on her stomach on the mattress, her long summery blonde hair flowing across her bare back. Dylan and I were a thing. Our whirlwind romance had quickly escalated to the point of her moving in with me. Imagine a girl from the north country of California and a guy from the great white north of Canada co-existing.  Well they say opposites attract.

She stirred and rolled over. Her eyes fluttered open against the light from the rising sun. "Morning stud" she croaked. If there's one thing in particular I liked about Dylan it was her canny sense of accuracy.

"Want some breakfast?" she asked.

"Hey I was just about to fix something, let's do it together."

She slid from the bed and put on my shirt that had been lying on the floor in once graceful move.

As I plugged in the coffee maker and she got out the flour, eggs, sausages and bread for crepes, french toast, eggs and all the fixings, my thoughts turned to the case.

At least I thought I still had a case of champagne and if so we could mix it with orange juice for momosas.

And as I sipped my drink and took one bite of the delicious breakfast spread out before me it came to me. Maybe it wasn't a man called Horse. Maybe it was a man that looked like a horse. You know, someone with similar facial features to Celine Dion. You know, when she walks into a bar the bartender says "Hey, why the long face?"

I was on to something. And after I got off her I showered and got dressed and left her in the apartment to clean up as I checked into the precinct. We called it the Cheese Shop because it was whey out of town. I had to see Chief Silver and explain my latest theory to him. I hopped in the car, turned the ignition and shouted "Up Scout". I don't know why but I always said that when I thought of Chief Silver.

Check out We Work For Cheese for the others in this godforsaken writing thing in February.