Lolita's Perception

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

Wednesday: June 4th |1947|
Today was supposed to be doomed from the very start. It all started the morning before last, when the weather man—the one with a stuffy nose, who's always got a cold—predicted a "monster storm."
Big mistake. After that, more than half the town went into what Hummy calls "news-induced-panic." Also known as: just about every grownup in this whole dummy town went running out to buy canned goods and kayaks 'cause they thought there was gonna be water up to our window-ceils.

Of course, nothing so spectacular ever did happen.

Instead I was woken up before the sun by a heart stopping crash of thunder, followed by quarter-sized raindrops noisily tapping against my bedroom window and slowly trickling in through the pane that had been slid open a crack the night before, when it was so hot and humid I thought I'd melt.

The storm went on and on for most of the afternoon, but those looming lilac rainclouds cleared out right around seven o'clock, which just so happened to be very favorite time of day. At least, in the summertime...

A warm evening breeze had begun fluttering through the air, bringing in dozens of different scents from each and every direction. Moss from the lake. Mud from the river. Meatballs (only sometimes with marinara) from Mrs. Marenchello's kitchen. The one with all the miniature chicken statues, and checkered mint wallpaper.

Even as I stepped through the scuffed doorway leading out to the garden, I could hear a faintly flirty tune playing from afar. The sky had slowly but surely shifted to the color of peeled peaches, and rose dusted tangerines. Meanwhile, the lingering rain left a hazy golden mist that hung low throughout the daisy fresh air.

Hoping to catch Professor H. out in the sun before he went back inside to tap-tap-tap on his typewriter for another bazillion hours, I strutted out onto the back patio with a rosy cheeked ballerina doll in one hand, and two of out of the four shiny metal Jax from my brand new set in the other.

As I turned the corner, my heart sank. There he was, and there was my mother, and there they were together: sitting side by side together on the old porch swing. Worst of all, they were drinking Chardonnay, which 'Cosmo' magazine says is the most romantic drink you could ever possibly serve to a man!

As aways, my mother the hagfish was blabbering on and on about something or another. This time, it was some dumb movie about some guy in a boxing match, which she took me to see all the way back in Christmastime. Boxing is what I like to think of as just about the dumbest sport ever created. I mean, jeez, if I really wanted to see two guys punch each other I'd just walk down to the bowling alley on Fifth Avenue and watch those guys in the navy suits play pool until one of them strikes out. Those kinds of fights are more entertaining, anyways.

Without any thought at all except the hope to break the two of them up, I ran straight over to the old wooden swing, dropping my handful of Jax onto the ground as I quickly squeezed myself in between those two. It's not that I don't want them to be friends or anything—friends is fine—I just don't want Mother falling all head over heels for this guy, dressing up in white and forcing me to call him "Daddy."

"For goodness sake, Dolores, n'avez-vous pas de manières!?" shouted Mother, her horribly fake French accent shining through as she spilled a drop of bubbly Chardonnay onto her silky teal blue blouse.

"Jeez, Mom, I didn't mean to! I was just tryna hear what you two old lovebirds were talking about..." I moodily shot back, all the while fighting with the doll still held within my hands.

Humbert cleared his throat, shaking his head as if to say: "Lovebirds? With that old hagfish? No way." And he was right: no way...