Charlie’s Angel

On the wall was a picture. A poster put up with thumbtacs. It was a woman in a bathing suit. A tight red one piece. She had long blonde hair. Feathered.

The old man looked at her everyday. Used to talk to her. Would say things like, Morning sunshine. At night he’d tell her, Sweet dreams.

By his easy chair was an overflowing ashtray filled with cigarette butts. There was always a bottle of whiskey on the small table too. Along with a glass. He’d pour himself shots and down them one after another while watching Charlie’s Angels.

One night the woman in the picture was on The Tonight Show. She was Johnny’s special guest. The tall blonde came out in a white dress that was flattering to her form. She’d laugh at his jokes. Smile as he made small talk. The old man smiled; proud that his woman was on TV.

And, as the old man watched, he heard her say she was married to the six million dollar man. Some actor out in Hollywood. He turned the sound down and cried. The old man knew it was over. He poured a drink and said goodbye to her. Kissed his fingers and placed them on her lips.

Then, he got real angry and started tearing the poster in small pieces. She was shredded on the dingy floor. Tiny bits of her in a pile. The old man didn’t vacuum her up. He left her there. Was careful to step over her when going down the hall. He never watched Charlie’s Angels again.

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