Flash Fiction * The Tom and Dwight Flood
He was staring through my window in his dingy wife-beater undershirt, sullen, short hair comically slanting backward. I hadn’t seen Dwight Flood land in my flowerbed, but my train of thought easily followed the cursing, the name of my cat, the cat leaping through the small door flap in the entryway and skidding across the tiles. The property manager’s face loomed, a lone impatiens blossom dangling on one side of his head. As if he could feel me looking at it, he brushed the flower aside with the hairy back of one hand. His eyes looked about to leave his head. I thought it best to go ahead outside and address the issue. “Want some coffee?” Dwight Flood made a quarter turn to glare in my direction. He was seething. I continued the friendly patter. “Cement’s slippery when it’s wet. Thank God for the flower bed, huh?” I ventured a friendly smile, which was shot down by piercing eye-arrows. It was no use. Dwight Flood and my cat have held a mutual blood-wish since they met three years ag