No Carrots, Please

Randall Poston swirled his glass, watching shards of ice melt in a whirlpool of scotch. He snapped off the radio. The living room hushed to the humming level of car tires on wet pavement twelve stories below. Somewhere between "Hey, Jude" and "Piano Man", the little girl fell asleep, a tiny bundle under the covers of his king size bed. The Lucite clock from Fortunoff's glowed a red 11:37.

Should he call the child's mother? The thought made his fingers grope for the receiver and lift it to his ear. Moments later, it slid, unused, gently back on the cradle. Kimberly Addison slept peacefully. The griping of her overindulged stomach had subsided, even in his incapable bands. Randall glanced at the bottle of thick pink liquid squatting on the coffee table, recalling the pains that gave her such grief and caused his stumbling rush to the drugstore. A few short hours ago, both Pepto Bismol and a blue-eyed five year old had joined his household.

His fingers curled around the medicine much the way they had curled around the handle of a battered suitcase, shoved at him that morning, along with a frantic medley of words from Nancy Addison.

"... and it will only be a day or two. She's really no trouble. If her grandfather weren't so sick, I'd bring her along ... but, with my mother and her arthritis. And Kimberly ... well, she wouldn't understand her grandfather laid up in bed, and all. Now I know you're quite the bachelor, Randy. Not used to having children underfoot. But, on such short notice, I can't leave her with anyone else, and seeing that you're home all day anyway. As for school, she has to be there by eight forty-five. She absolutely won't eat carrots. Spaghetti though ... "

Randall reme...

... middle of paper ...

...nhattan tour guide, how about dinner, say in two hours? Nothing fancy. Spaghetti and a bottle of wine."

"No carrots, please," interrupted Kimberly.

"I agree, midget," added Randall. "I hate carrots, too."

"But Mama, you know what? Mr. Postman doesn't hate Cheerios no more."

Hand-in-hand, mother and daughter left for their apartment, Kimberley crunching Samantha and Oliver under one arm. Randall stood in the open doorway. "I'll bring her things over later, Nancy. See you both at six."

As he began closing the door, Kimberly shouted, "Mr. Postman, wait!" She ran to him, eyes wide and serious, a miniature replica of her mother.

Randall dropped to one knee. "What's the matter, midget? Need another Oreo?"

She wrapped her tiny arms tightly around his neck. He barely heard her whispered words.

"I love you, Mr…. Mr. Randy."