And My Shoes Want to Run Away

(How to write a solid antagonist? I blog about it here: Good Bad Guys. - JMG)


Story Sent in by Stephen:

Annette was a blind date. During our dinner, I noticed that she didn't say much and that she repeatedly held her hands out, palms upward, and extended and curled her fingers. At first I didn't mention anything about it until I finally asked, "Bad circulation?"

"It's the blood," she said, "It needs to be reminded where to go."

I said, "So poor circulation, then?"

She put her hands down, then picked up her water glass and shook it slightly. "This needs blood," then she picked up her dinner plate, "and this," she set her plate down, then picked up the stand-up drink menu and shook it, "and this."

"But they're not living," I informed her.

She looked down at the floor, as if she was considering what I said. Finally, she replied, "They need blood to nourish. Yours might do."

I laughed. "I need mine. They'll have to get it someplace else."

She said, serious as anything, "But you don't need all of yours. When you give blood, they take some from your bag of meat to fill up other not-bag-of-meat things."

What the hell was she talking about? "Other things?"

In response, she picked up her plate and the drink menu again. Pretending to understand, I said, "Oh. Those things."

She nodded, evidently very excited. "They want your blood! They can't exist, otherwise. Nothing can. That's really the secret to life."

"I'm sorry. Plates want blood?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not just any blood. Yours."

"Why mine?"

She shrugged. "Ask it. I'm only a messenger."

I said, "Maybe after dinner."

She went back to eating her wrap and curling her fingers, and I asked for the check. Wouldn't you know it, I not only completely forgot to ask the plate why it needed my blood, but I also failed to remember to ask Annette out again.