Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever by Phoenix Sullivan (easy readers txt) 📕

now, I’m going to bed. Looks like I gotta catch another mammoth tomorrow. ‘Night.” He climbed into the truck and stretched out on a blanket with his head on his saddle.

“Good night.” I started away. His voice came after me.

“You sure are one crummy shot, that’s for sure.”

~~~

ROBERT J. SULLIVAN worked for an insurance company for 14 years (proving he can tolerate anything) before becoming a computer programmer in a language so obscure system recruiters have never heard of it. He has a list of interests so varied it’s easier to list what he isn’t interested in, and follows the Red Sox at a safe distance. He is an obsessive reader of science fiction, detective stories and thrillers, and is very much taken with Neal Stephenson and John Sandford. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, and has two grown children who show amazing tolerance for his behavior.

George thought Stinson’s window office would surely be his after making a momentous discovery while on holiday. When the distractions get too much, however, his wife cooks up a surprise to remind him love is always worth sacrificing for.

Distractions

by Peter Dudley

“Remember sunscreen, George.” Not ten minutes in Bora Bora, and she’s already at me about melanoma. “You know you spend far too much time in that dungeon of yours.”

“It’s not a dungeon, Mabel. It’s my office.”

“Well, I still say it’s outrageous that the maths professors have top story windows and the ornithologists get buried in the basement. Stinson stacks his texts right in front of the window, for goodness sake, because the drapes don’t block the light enough.”

She huffs a sigh and pulls a long, taupe cloth from her suitcase, which lies open on the bed. “Oh! These control tops get wrapped around everything.”

As she extracts the threadbare hose from their stranglehold on a rumpled pair of flowered shorts, my eyes wander to the open doorway. It’s a rectangle of beautiful, nut-brown wood framing an intense blue-on-blue horizon. Mabel had insisted on the last bungalow on the pier, so we’d have some privacy. I consider dropping my shorts and enjoying our sundeck au naturel.

I imagine Mabel will insist that I lather Mister Floppy up with sunscreen. Or, dear Lord, she might insist on doing it for me. There are only two things in this room that sag more than her jowls, and oh-my-god she’s about to expose them as she changes into her swimsuit.

I rush out the door into the blinding afternoon.

“Sunscreen, George!”

The warm Pacific breeze flows over me as I flop into one of the chaise lounges and shove dark glasses over my eyes. From here we can see nothing but ocean and sky. Some Gygis alba and a pair of Fregata minor dot the blue. But dammit I’m on holiday. From now on, they’re merely terns and frigates.

The only birds I’ll let distract me this week will be wearing thong bikinis. There are plenty of beautiful specimens in the other bungalows to help me hone my keen powers of scientific observation. Perhaps I can find a mating pair and separate them, handing the male over to Mabel for her amusement while I examine the female with minute precision.

I breathe deeply of the salt-scented air in order to loosen the knots forming in my shoulders. Years ago, before we had kids, Mabel used to make other parts of me stiff. Now, she only stiffens my neck with her constant chirping and innuendo. She bore my children, and now I suppose I’m worried that my inability to perform will bore her.

As if summoned by subconscious devilry, Mabel waddles from the hut. In a one-piece, thank God. I don’t have to scratch my eyes out. The suit’s faux new-age modern-art pattern looks like it was made from drapery stolen from a cheap motel in Leeds. At least it covers the parts that must be covered.

“Now, dear,” Mabel croons, a lime green tube clutched in her talons, “you’ve not put on sunscreen. Here. Let me do you.”

I pop up and away, out of the chair, using it as a barrier between us. “That’s all right, dear.” I must get away. Any excuse. My mind races. At home, I’d claim work on a paper, or the need to meet with a student after hours. Just as her hopeful coyness is darkening to a frown, I hit on it.

“Beer. We have no beer in the bungalow, dear, and a man in this environment can’t be fully relaxed, and … well … properly lubricated, if you know what I mean, if he hasn’t had a decent pint.”

She’s unconvinced, and her expression is growing more stormy by the second.

“All that time in airplanes has put me in need of a brisk walk. I promise I won’t be gone long. You saw that store near the check-in. I’m sure they have something.” I slip around the chair and dart past her, back inside. She does not move.

I grab the yellow tee-shirt I’d only just removed, and as I slip it on I call to her, “Can I get you anything, love?” A nice sedative, perhaps?A bottle of sleeping pills?

She mumbles something I can’t make out that sounds suspiciously like muscled young stud.

“What’s that, love?”

“Oh, nothing.” She’s facing away, looking out over the water. “Take your time. I’ll occupy myself.”

I try hard not to visualize her self-occupation. When we were packing, she was overly conspicuous in the way she secretly slipped a pocket “vibrating massager” into her bag. I’m glad she brought it. Means I can get my beer, take a walk on the beach, and come back to spend the evening unmolested.

“Oh, dear, before you go?” Her voice has a bit of urgency to it.

“Um, yes?”

“You should come see this. There’s a bird out here, in the water. It looks hurt.”

“I’m on holiday, Mabel.” Let the damn fishes eat the bugger.

“But it’s looking at me, George. It wants help. Oh, do come help the poor dear.”

I sigh and stomp back out onto the deck