Cliff and Peg

Snug in a cozy bed, Cliff groped his pillow in dream. A dream he’d been having since May. Clad only in torn chaps and surrounded by ten of Miami’s finest hams, he’d sip his nog with Peg by a beach-side fire and avow his wild side a thing of the past. All the while, gazing at the ebb of the tide and discussing their plans to loot the Scuba Store after the next hurricane. They were desperately in need of a second swimmer’s fin. Of course, one was better than zero, but it made going straight awfully difficult.

Between the two of them they had hardly a peso. They'd been living for the last week off nothing but Holly-nog and grain. They were in debt to their eyeballs from the bank loans Cliff had taken to open his business as a flower dyer. Certain business would improve as he hones his skill, Peg found it within her id to support him. Cliff loved her for this and was grateful she didn’t nix another one of his hair-brained schemes, like the time he suggested writing a book on Hitler using only rune.

Just then a rogue wave washed over the two of them, extinguishing their fire and leaving Cliff gasping for air. As he struggled to breathe he felt Peg’s hand on his and heard her voice, softly at first, but then louder and louder.

“Honey…honey…are you ok?”
“Um…er…I guess it was only a dream.”
“Uh, yeah” Peg replied, and rolling back over thought to herself, “he always mixes that nog with too much damn rum.”

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