Schrodinger Killed his Cat

I was there.

It was late summer at the time, high summer, in those weeks just before the first brush of fall air finds its way in, and we were on the patio drinking, watching the trees. Scotch for me; blue kool-aid and vodka for him. He’d had a lot of it. His face was red.

“Albert,â€? he said, smiling roundly and leaning into his chair, hands clasped around the back of his head, “did I ever tell you about my cat?â€?

“About your cat, Erwin?â€? There was a bit of kool-aid on his chin; I brushed at my own in an attempt at tactful notification but he paid no heed.

“Rumsfeld.â€? He seemed to draw the word across his tongue. “Rummy. Did I ever tell you about him?â€?

“I don’t believe you did, Er.â€?

“Well,â€? he said. “Well.â€? And seemed to leave it at that.

This story has no comments.