A Meeting For Toffee

Late one afternoon as the sun started to set and the moon was ready to take its place on the global stage there was a piece of candy sitting on the dock that was connected to the wharf used by the city slickers.

“Toffee,” she heard a scream then looked up to see a boat filled with laborers entering port.

“Are you now fishing looking for a man?” The angler who was married for more than a century’s quarter continued.

Drenched in salty water she pulled out her modeling legs before finding the discounted sneakers ready to be worn. Projecting the same inflection voice learned in teenage drama school an answer was sent to the seafaring individuals, “what are you the bait on the retirement hook?”

“No, Toffee, I would be home with you having lunch?”

“What about your wife?” Toffee again shouted a question.

“She makes good tuna fish,” the elder worker held up today’s catch watching Toffee stomp back to the dry land.

Once the cheaply made footwear hit the asphalt Toffee checked her watched and noticed there was enough time left until the meeting with her agent Brent Ford. “Good old Brent,” she thought, “he was so secure, nothing was even close to taking away his social status on the professional ladder.”

Like a quick shot in an old European film her attention was distracted by a bird image lying on the pavement, its yellow body infected with a deep purplish-red color.

“It’s a canary!” Toffee gasped, “the canary is dead!”

Quickly bringing herself together Toffee remained calm while transitioning into an empowering strut walk taught to her as a youth.

Soon enough after a healthy stroll Toffee reached the Premier Coffee Café and saw Brent sitting there and in hand was Claret wine. Reaching the small table she greeted the situation with this remark, “Brent, you are relaxing here like a Saint, no worries if any maiden voyages you sent out will hit an iceberg, huh.”

“My maiden’s do not hit icebergs,” Brent defended himself while offering a seat. Toffee grabbed the chair feeling in control while a staff member requested if she wanted anything,

“Grape juice,” Toffee pleasantly responded, "we are on budget, remember.”

“Toffee,” Brent smiled, “what happened to you?”

Toffee gave him the traditional adolescent glare, “are you still upset about the peacock pictorial presentation in the news insert Parading?”

“They were all white,” Toffee reminded him, “what did you do with all the peacock’s colors?”

Brent sat there in silence listening to the plight, “At that time I was so successful, I had all this buzz surrounding me like hornets not leaving me alone,” Toffee explained “and then you call, go on this Parading news insert magazine peacock cover story and boom,”

“The buzz stopped,”

“Dead in its tracks,” Toffee confirmed.

Taking a sip from the glass Brent suggested, “You know what, meet with Chelsea, they may give you some points.”

“Really, you think so?”

“Maybe,” Brent repeated.

“Do you think I will be able to have enough points to catch Aston in his villa?” Toffee sarcastically commented.

“Well,” Brent was being honest, “Aston’s got that place going and he seems pretty secure and should have no problem keeping his social status for next year.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“After getting together with Chelsea get some points from the foxes,” Brent suggested about another group that has nothing to worry about and are set in their ways.

“You think they are at Aston’s Villa drinking Claret wine?

Pondering the thought Brent picked up the check.

Later that evening under the covers Toffee reflected upon the hopeful strategy planned out but the canary death haunted her sending a challenge there could be more danger in the coming weeks,

“The canary is dead and soon hornet buzz will also be relegated,” Toffee’s eyes stared into the darken blue night, “I have to figure out a way to get out of this dreadful dungeon lifestyle.”