Wormhole

It’s Wordle #209 over at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. These are the words we have to use:

1. Grasp
2. Infuse
3. Shell
4. Form
5. Experience
6. Fly
7. Form
8. Nubilous (adj.)) cloudy or foggy: vague or obscure: indefinite)
9. Sizzle
10. Trapdoor
11. Puzzle
12. Red

With a pomegranate-infused martini in hand, Priscilla admired herself in the mirror. While she positively sizzled in her form-fitting, red sequin dress, something was missing.

What could it be?

Priscilla sipped her martini and tried to figure out what she’d forgotten.  Suddenly, she became aware of something moving around in her mouth, and it wasn’t her tongue. Fortunately she hadn’t swallowed yet, and spit out the mouthful of martini… along with a big, greasy fly. It landed on the dusty rose carpeting, barely alive. She stepped on it in her stocking feet, mashing it into the carpet.

“Ewww!” Priscilla exclaimed, then burst out laughing. “My shoes! That’s what I’d forgotten.”

She hobbled into the bathroom and wiped the fly’s remains off the ball of her foot with a piece of toilet paper. “Gross,” she muttered and tossed it into the toilet.

Priscilla padded to her walk-in closet to choose a pair of shoes from the 150 or so that hung in the shoe racks. After puzzling over it for a few minutes, she decided on the egg shell-colored Prada pumps.

She then put the finishing touches on her make-up and fashioned her long dark hair into an elaborate bun.

“Ready-Freddy!” she smiled at her reflection in the mirror and went downstairs.

Her date would come to pick her up at 7:00pm. That gave her enough time for another martini.

By now it was 6:45 and he should be here any minute. Priscilla sat at the kitchen table sipping her martini and working the New York Times crossword puzzle. “Hmmmm… an eight-letter word for trapdoor….” She glanced at the clock. It was 7:01. She sighed and got up to fix another martini. After taking a step, the kitchen began to spin. The room seemed shrouded in a nubilous fog. “Guess I should’ve eaten lunch,” she mumbled.

She found some cheese in the fridge and some old Saltines in the cupboard. Then she built her third martini and sat down to figure out an eight-letter word for trapdoor.

By now it was 8:15.

He wasn’t coming, she knew from experience, because he never came.

This odd Saturday night ritual began shortly after her fiancée Ricky, dumped her last summer. Just a week before the wedding he’d decided that he needed some space. She’d never heard from him again.

“Wormhole!”

Satisfied that she finished her puzzle, Priscilla kicked off her shoes and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.