Character Sketch: Cynthia

     The key turned in the front door and the lock clicked back.  She pushed the door open and flipped on the light at the entrance of the apartment.  The musty smell of her little home was welcoming to her, the smell of a dust and old newspapers with a litterbox undertone.  Her red, three inch heels clicked on the tile floor as she walked the short distance across the apartment.  She pulled off her black overcoat and threw it down on the arm of the couch. 
     "How is my baby today?" she asked her feline, Bartholomew.  He peered up at her from the arm of the recliner he was perched on, "meow," was his response.
     "I know, baby," she said to Bartholomew and then rubbed her face in his furry coat.  "I hate leaving you all day and going to that wretched school, teaching those wretched kids.  They don't ever listen to a word that I say and most of them wouldn't know algebra if it jumped up and smacked them in their empty little heads." 
     Bartholomew gave Cynthia a look of dismay then stretched his feline body, clawing at the arm of the chair.  He was like an old man who had been woken too early from his afternoon nap.
     She gets comfortable in her recliner, which was the same green color of her dress, just in time for the phone to ring.  She reaches over to pick up the receiver, "hello?" she says.
     "Hey, babe," came the deep reply.
     "Hi, sugar.  I was just about to call you.  I had a dreadful day at work today.  My students were horrible. They didn't seem to be interested in anything that I had to say.  My class is failing me.  I told them about our weekend in Atlanta, thinking that it would get their attention, but it didn't work.  Talking about Bartholomew didn't even get --"
     "Wait, what?  You told them about Atlanta?" he cut her off.
     "Why not?  They are going to learn about stuff like that one day.  Besides we had a romantic weekend.  I wanted to share all the details," her southern accent was thick like molassess.
     "Darling, I wouldn't exactly say that telling fifteen-year-olds about spending the weekend in a cheap hotel with me is a good idea," he exclaimed.
     "It was not a cheap hotel!  It was the best hotel in all of Atlanta.  And I couldn't have imagined being there with anyone else but you, my darling," she defended.
     "Look, Cynthia, I really have to go.  I was just calling to let you know that I have to cancel our plans.  I have business that I can't break away from."
     "Cancel our plans?" the tone of her voice got higher.  "But it's last minute.  I've been waiting all day to see you, darling.  It was all that I could do to get through the day.  Hell, I've been so excited I was sweating like a pig all day in class.  Felt like I was on fire.  You can't cancel on me now!"
     "I have to go.  I have no choice.  I will call later."
     She hung up and sat patiently waiting for him to call again.  He never called.  Not that night or the next or the next.
     A week later, she sat at her desk still dreaming about him.  Tears in her emerald eyes.  She had always carried on conversations with her class, rather to her class since very few of her students listened, about weekend getaways and Bartholomew, but now she could only talk about the cat.   
     "You alright, Mrs. Nixon?"  One of her students, Donna, seemed guinuienly concerned.
     "I'm fine," she replied.
     "You look very pretty today," Donna lied hoping to raise her spirits.  Mrs. Nixon may have been a crazy woman with all her talk and never teaching, but Donna didn't like to see anyone upset.
     "I do?" Cynthia asked, her eyes lit up.
     "Yes, ma'am, very pretty today," Donna lied again.  She was sad for her teacher.  Donna knew that Mrs. Nixon was in her mid-forties, she didn't really have any family except her mother was still alive and she considered her cat her child.  She knew about the break-up because Mrs. Nixon had already told the entire class and every other class she taught that day.  Mrs. Nixon often looked messy, but today she was an exceptional disaster with her red hair barely pinned down to her head like it was trying to escape a death sentence all over her head.  Her nails were chipped and her makeup seemed smeared on instead of applied.  Her dress dangled loosely from her body and seemed to be the least flattering color of brown.  She had even put on two different brown dress shoes that day. 
     "Thank you, Donna," Cynthia replied, "that is very nice of you to say." 
     In Cynthia's mind, the wheels had instantly began turning.  She must have done something better today with her appearance, but what?  She decided right then and there that she would head out and find herself a good man starting right after work.
     "We're going to cancel the quiz for the day, but you will all get an automatic A," Cynthia addressed the class.  She didn't want to have to waste precious time grading papers.