A Man Needs A Maid

 

That was one particular April in 2014, when it had been drizzling, raining cats and dogs and hailing in turn and I was working at this farm somewhere in the boonies of southern Germany, where the rough charm and ruddy looks of one Mr. Rolf Pralad had brought me. One of his favorite songs was Neil Young’s “A man needs a maid” – he’d told me that before I arrived there, but I had no idea how literally he understood the title. 

I learned to get up early, feed the animals, milk the cows, make breakfast, clean the place, etc. In turn I initially got some loving, but that faded after a short time. 

It was towards the end of April, and it was still raining, I kid you not, when he tossed me out because his old girlfriend had come back. 

“I don’t deserve this, Rolf!”
“A matter of opinion.”
“What has she got that makes her better than me?”
“Well, for one she is blonde, and I prefer blondes, and then –”
“Then what?”
“I don’t want to insult you, Karo.”
“Well, you’ve done plenty of that already, Rolf. I deserve better.”
“You don’t. Get lost!”

Upon which he threw out my suitcase, pushed me out the door and slammed it shut in my face.

But his dog Pummel followed me, and now, ten years later, I still have that dog – a heavenly creature compared to his former master.

– Kathleen Mulholland (© 2024)

Author's note: Story not my own. Loosely based on a video game (see lo-fi clip above).

Final

Rose's jabs at me while we were having our weekly candlelight dinner at the Oasis, that place of Nouvelle Cuisine fine dining and excessive pricing, seemed a bit labored or even makeshift.

"There's something wrong with your jabs tonight, love," I said during a break.

She took her time chewing a morsel of boeuf whatever.

She cleared her throat; this was always a bad sign.

"My jabs, as you so conveniently call my part of our conversation, have come to an end. I'm leaving you."

"Don't tell me it's Julian Dent."

Julian Dent was her posh and good looking dentist. I'd long suspected that something might be going on there.

"No. It's not."

She took a sip from her glass of Merlot and savored it.

"Someone I know?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Your brother."

Now that was the final jab. Like one with a knife. And it had come easily from her, sounding neither labored nor makeshift.

She rose quietly and walked out of my life.

– Leonard Blumfeld ((c) 2015)

Written around jab, labored and makeshift from 3WW.