For the love of God, when is that old lady going to learn to keep her damn cat inside? The cloying sounds of a screeching meow-meow was quickly shredding what was left of Ella’s nerves. Grudgingly getting up from her computer, she trudged to the front door and opened it to the familiar, ear-piercing noise known as Beatrice Abernathy’s voice. “Here kitty, kitty! Sampson, please come down out of that mean old tree. Come to mama,” the eighty-year-old whined, tapping her cane on the sidewalk. Stiffly, she turned around to give Ella a disapproving look. “A big girl like you shouldn’t be parading around outside in her underwear.” Images of strangling Beatrice’s scrawny little neck played on a constant loop in Ella’s mind. She didn’t have anything against the elderly, but this particular octogenarian knew how to push Ella’s hot buttons—more specifically her fat buttons. “Ms. Bea, I would hardly classify yoga pants and a tank top as underwear.”
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