Mary Estrada's Editor's Pick:
How I Fell In Love With Susan
by Michael Johnson
My wife's in love with our white Siberian tiger, Charlie. She spends all her time with him. We don't even play Tuesday night charades with the Goldbergs, anymore. And you can forget Bingo down at the community center, or classic movie night at the drive in.
"What's the deal?" I say one night after TV dinners. "I feel like I'm loosing you to the tiger."
"Charlie and I have a special connection," she says. "You wouldn't understand it."
"But he's a white Siberian tiger, he can't even talk."
"That's the difference, Bob. Charlie listens."
I can hear Charlie in the next room ripping into a zebra. She smiles at this, but I'm the one that'll scrub the blood out of the carpet when he's finished.
"Can we stop talking about this," she says. "I don't like to disturb him while he eats."
I say, "He growled right through C.S.I." But the point is lost on her.
That night, she lets him sleep in our bed, right between us. I wake up and Charlie's spooning me, tiger drool running down my neck. I can't take it. I drive down to the Salty Otter and order a beer.
"She's got him sleeping in our bed now," I tell Jimmy the bartender.
"Sounds to me like mama needs some sugar. Little TLC, if you know what I mean."
Jimmy's always right.
I drive like hell, ready to give it my wife. But when I get home and flick on the nights I see Charlie's beat me to it. She is my wife and he is our tiger, but they do it like dogs. I slam the door, run outside and puke all over the driveway. I sit on the curb wiping the sick from my mouth. The moon is ugly in the sky and then I feel the paw on my shoulder. It's Susan, the Goldberg's cheetah. She purrs and licks my face. In her eyes I see the orange light from the gas lamps. She gestures something sexy with her whiskers, does a big smile and flashes fang. Then puts her arms around my shoulders as if to say, "You ready for this, old boy?"