The Age of Optimism

                                              a short story by Cindy Hammel

        It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Okay, it was also the dullest of times. It was a match made in heaven, where two star-crossed lovers were pulled apart by boredom. So Darling left Jim Dear for the Milkman.
   
        “There. Things aren’t so dull now, are they?” said Darling Cliché, with one foot out the door.
   
        “Here’s to you, Kid,” said her husband from the kitchen table. He raised his glass, then down the hatch. “And don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” he shouted after her. Of course it did. But you see, the walls have ears. They always have and they always will.

        “I heard that!” said Darling, rushing back through like gangbusters. She was carrying an open milk jug and in her haste, it sloshed down the front of her dress. It was that time of the month, so of course she cried. And a man hates to see a woman cry.
   
        “Don’t cry over spilt milk.”
   
        “Jim Dear, you’re really not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you? It’s not about the milk! It’s never been about the milk!”
   
        “Then what’s it about?”
   
        She sighed, exasperated. He really was thick as thieves. “Well if you’d just take your head out of the sand, you’d see the Milkman has a cart out front. But he went and got the cart before the horse. We don’t have a spare horse kicking around here, do we?”
   
        “Well, I may not be the brightest tool in the shed, but the Milkman isn’t the sharpest penny in the box, now is he?”
   
        “Don’t you mean…”

        “Darlin’ I’m here all week.” Jim Cliché stifled a laugh. “Listen to what I mean, not what I say.” Jim Dear was on fire.

        “Why don’t you twist the knife a little bit deeper while you’re at it?” Oh, if looks could kill, Jim Cliché would be a dead man walking. But they can’t so he was still fit as a fiddle and giggling like a schoolgirl.
   
        “Me? I’m twisting the knife?” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding! You’re the one running away with the Milkman!”
   
        “You’re right,” said Darling, with a chip on her shoulder. “I guess I’ll just have to go see a man about a horse….” And she was off again.
   
        “You do that. Just don’t forget to look a gift horse in the mouth. And don’t let the door hit you on your way out!” He shouted as the door slammed behind her.

        “You already used that cliché!” she yelled back, nearly out of ear shot. Why did he have to be so annoying?

        “Well with you, it always goes in one ear, and out the other!” Jim Dear was not about to be outdone. Besides, he knew she’d be back. Everyone knows, the third time’s the charm. And sure enough, his wife back in a Jiffy, only to find Mr. Cliché buckled over, in stitches.

        “Well, I’m glad you seem to think this is so funny.”

        “Sorry,” said Jim Dear, still trying to can it. He was at the stove this time, with jars and bottles everywhere. “I think I’ve finally got it. We’ll be eating bottled laughter all winter. Wanna try some? It’ll make your mouth water!”

        “No. And I know you’re not sorry.”

        “Nope. Not really. I love you Darling. You’re just such a cliché.”

        “YOU’RE a cliché. You’re mother’s a cliché and your mother’s mother is a cliché.” 

        “You’re right.” He was pleased. His wife had clearly been studying the family tree.
   
        “Anyway, the Milkman went and vanished into thin air.” 

        “Really? Are you sure it wasn’t thick air?” asked Jim Dear.

        “Well, thick air wouldn’t be very Cliché, now would it?”

        “You’re right,” And she was. The woman’s always right. “But that sounded like a loaded question,” said Jim Dear. “And seeing as you tried to leave me for a Milkman who’s missing in action after getting cart before the horse, making you cry over spilt milk….”

        Mrs. Cliché cut in. “Look, at least get your facts straight. I cried over the horse not the milk.”

        “But how can you cry over a horse that isn’t there?”

        “Okay, so I cried over the cart, that came before the horse.”

        “Oh, cry me a river!” After all the stunts his wife had pulled, he was plumb out of patience.

        “Hold on a second,” said Darling. “If I cry you a river, like a real river, at the spur of the moment, then would we have waterfront property?”
 
        They both paused. It was a pregnant pause, so pregnant you could practically hear the wheels turning. She had a point. A point you could poke things with. This could be a very fruitful day.

        “Well, I’ll be…” said Jim Dear Cliché.

        “You’ll be what?”

        The full meaning of Mrs. Cliché’s suggestion was just starting to take root in Mr. Cliché’s pea-sized brain. “I’ll be happy as a clam!”

        She grinned. “Better to be happy as a clam than a fish out of water!” Oh, snap. The Clichés were on to something.

        “Well, you know what they say,” he said. “Location, location, location! Lets get the ball rolling!”

        And with that, all thoughts of milkmen and gift horses flew out the window and bless their hearts, those two went and cried themselves a river. And presto-changeo, the Clichés had themselves some waterfront property. Now that’s something to write home about, and it sure gave the Jones’ next door something to chew on.

        As they stood on their porch, admiring their new waterfront view, it seemed the clouds had passed. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Said Jim Dear. “I could make you even more Cliché, if you like.”
 
        “What do you have in mind?”

        “How would you like to be barefoot and pregnant?”

        “That just might be the best idea since sliced bread,” said Darling, and that was saying quite a lot, seeing how much she loved sliced bread.
   
        Meanwhile, next door, Mr. and Mrs. Jones peeped out the window at the new river of tears surging by and couldn’t believe their eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned. When it rains, it pours.” said Mrs. Jones. “Those Clichés sure have all their ducks in a row.”

        Mr. Jones took one peek out the window. “Woman, you’re blind as a bat,” he said to his wife. “Those aren’t ducks floating by. They’re milk bottles!”

        “And…what are they doing out there? They really need to get a room? Don’t they know, WE’RE the Jones. WE’RE the ones the neighborhood has to keep up with! Sweetie, they’re stealing our thunder…Sweetie?” But her words had fallen on deaf ears, or more like no ears at all.  When Mrs. Jones turned around her husband was nowhere in sight. He’d already slipped out the back, falling for the elusive Milkman–– hook, line and sinker.