This is from the upcoming… as in I am still writing it, novel, How Not to Date a Changeling! I blame Barb Hicks and her Writerspace Chat Crew for this one too! LOL HEre is Taylor having a bad day….

“Life in the fast lane,” Taylor sang, tossing his head back and shaking his hips.
He was baking. In the last four days he had tried everything he could to get into that house. The note he left tapped to the door was found the next in the same envelope, torn to its bitty little prices and the noise was more intense that night. He tried sending flowers only to find the bouquet decapitated in their vase when he went back. The hello card was corrected for grammatical errors in red ink the next day and the noise sounded smug and spiteful that night. And his last attempt, a basket of breads was taken in and the mangled basket left on her front porch. It was a game to him now, to get his house unpacked and get to meet the strange neighbor. Baked goods was the closest that he had come so he was going to continue on that track. It was a personal goal to get ingot hat house and he was not above pulling out the hard stuff to get his way.
He swiveled his hips, all stripper sheik, his hips moving on point, and- hit the ground… hard.
“Fuck!” He bellowed as his bad knee clicked as it gave away, and he collapsed onto his side. If this pain had a color, it would be bright red with radiating white streaks of fire shooting up his thigh and down to his ankles. Hissing, he leaned over and gripped his knee with both hands as he writhed on the kitchen floor. Some abstract point of his mind was grateful that he decided to keep his living area on the first floor, reserving the second floor for guest rooms. And never was he more grateful when he realized that he didn’t have to navigate the stairs to get to his pain meds.
When the bright red of his knee dulled to an angry purple, he forced himself to move. Flipping over onto his back was e ought to make him curse again, but he refrained and forced himself to sit up.
It was a blessing that his heavy butchers block kitchen table was strong enough to hold his weight as he struggled to get upright and on his feet. Silently, he blessed his theorist who insisted in indoor athletic shoes for traction because if he slipped again, he was going to wind up on his ass for the rest of the night.
Using the walls for balance, he ignored the deep throbbing that add itself to his knee party and the hot spot his left leg had become as he made his way to his bedroom.
The hope trunk at the foot of his bed was his goal. It had been a gift to him by his grandmother years before she passed and he treasured the trunk made of oak and dreams. Even now he loved the damn thing even thought it would never be used for its original purpose. Instead of being filled with baby clothing and tangible memories of the love of his life, it now held souvenirs of his battle to remain ambulatory and the gear needed to control his pain. There were no silks and stains, but there was a to get garment made of neoprene and steel that offered support and balance that was more powerful than any relationship he could have chosen to have,
He stumbled to the bed and sank down on the foot of it as he flung the trunk open. His knee brace, one of many, waited to embrace his leg and knee and offer what support it could. It took a few seconds to get the Velcro straps just right and then he signed as the swelling was checked as the cold neoprene surrounded his leg and thigh, keeping his knee cap centered while allowing motion.
Once he was properly strapped in, it was only a matter of making his way back to the kitchen for….
It was about them that the alarm on his oven went off.
“Fuck,” Taylor struggled to his feet, moving a fast as he could, which was not very fast considering, and tripped his way down to the kitchen. With every step, anger grew. He was out of a job, stuck in this house, and inundated with noise every night…. And now his knee was done and the fucking cake was burning. Moving so fast he nearly stumbled a time or two, he made it to the kitchen and over to the oven. He nearly burned himself on the oven door before He remembered to slip on his oven mitts. He ripped the chocolate mint cheesecake out of the oven and barely prevented himself from throwing it against a wall and watching it splatter in a bright beautiful mess… Just like his knee… Just like his life.
But he restrained himself. He dragged his bad leg behind him as he made Hiawatha to the cabinet that held his meds. He slammed the door open and stared at his unending supply of narcotics and pain meds while he decided how dumb he wanted to be that night. Was it a Percocet night which would numb his mind but not the pain, not really…. Or would Vicodin be the drug of the hour? It would numb the pain…and his mind, but that was a small price to pay for the ability to walk upright, right? Then there was oxy… Good old oxy, made you tremble likes rack head and drool in the corner, but he would feel nothing at all. That was good, right? Well, at least he still had a leg. Fuck the fact that the pain meds made taking a shit a bloody nightmare, literally. No, he could actually exist in a drugged haze until they threw his ass in rehab… Never mind his lack of a sex life, at least he had his health, somewhat. Forget about ever finding someone to sleep over for the night let alone start a relationship. Who wanted to sleep with a man who had flashbacks and nigh terrors that inevitably brought him awake standing whoever had the misfortune of being beside him. Who wanted to endure his scared up body and tendency to fall down when least expected? Who wanted a fucking cripple as their significant other? So instead of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness that he damn near died fighting for so others should have a normal life, his life now consisted of goals. To get out do the bed in the morning, he had to have a goal. Too keep fitting, he had to have a goal. And now, his motherfucking goal was to get into that god-damned house.
Taylor slammed the cabinet shut and absently grabbed the really nice cheesecake with his oven mitt and stormed towards the front door. Ignoring his usual outdoor shoes, he slung the front door open, his pain and anger carrying him forward. Limping, damn near dragging his leg behind him, he stormed up the path to the mad woman’s door. The setting sun told him that he had an hour or so before she would start her caterwauling. He had to hop on one leg to move up the two stairs that led to her front door.
Blam Blam Blam
“I know you are there!” He bellowed, pounding the door so hard it shook on its mooring. “Look, you pitiless monster. For a week I’ve been playing nice, dealing with your fucking noises and bringing you gifts.”
“No!” He heard from behind and the less angry part of his brain recognized Miss Winnie.
He ignored her and pounded on the door again. “I bust my ass trying to be kind and you throw it up in my face. You take what I give and act like a feckless bitch. So you know what?” He hefted the cake pan high, eyeing her door. “You like my baked good so much you had to eat them all and fuck up my basket as a thank you. Well, I got something for you now. You’ve got five seconds too pen this fucking door or so help me I’m gonna smear this chocolate mint cheesecake that I so neighborly prepared for you all over your front door and then fuck you!”
“It’s not going to work and you… you’re going to get yourself killed,” Mis Winnie screamed and he slammed his hand down on the door once more.
“Five seconds! One…two… Three… Four… Fi-” and the door clicked open.
Taylor stood there, mouth hanging open, hand raised to strike the door. It was an obvious invitation, but dare he take it?
He looked over his shoulder at Miss Winnie and her purple tinted poodle that was glaring at him in abject disapproval, down to his swollen throbbing knee, and then back to the open door.
Goals needed to be met.
Slowly, he limped into the house.

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