[Wk17] The Frog
Iris walked her favorite trail with every intention of quieting the rabble that had risen to screams between her ears in the last few days. She focused on the slick crackling of moisture-laden leaves underneath her brown leather boots, and the breeze sifting the layers between her heavy tweed cloak, cashmere sweater, and silk turtleneck. She tucked an errant strand of coal black hair into her felted cloche, inhaling her bergamot perfume as her gloved hand grazed her face.
“Help!”
Iris stopped. She peered for a brief moment into the woods before apprehending a large, olive and brown speckled, frog crouched at the foot of a large fir on the edge of the path. She cast dubious eyes on the creature, who belched at her lidded gaze.
“Do you live here?” The frog asked.
“Yeah.” Iris glared at it. “Why?”
“If you are princess of these lands, then you must-”
“The fuck?” Iris replied. “I’m no princess. I just live here. You’re in my backyard.”
“I mean, sure. Same thing. I meant metaphorically ‘princess,’” The frog reassured her.
“I’m not a metaphorical princess, either. I just happen to live on a large chunk of land. I walk on it sometimes. What’s up, frog? What do you need?” Iris glanced at her Google watch and wondered if her therapist was up for an emergency session.
“I’ve been cursed, obviously,” The frog said. It hopped onto a root and landed in a mossy crevice with a dismal squelch. “I’m told that the kiss of a beautiful princess will free me.”
“Look, I’m not buying your princess spiel. No one is. Even princesses are not buying that spiel, and they will buy anything.” Iris sighed. “I can’t help you. I’m definitely not kissing you. What is this, the enchanted version of a dick pic? Chalk me up to a swipe left.”
“Miss! Please! I’m desperate, and I would like to learn how to talk to you!” The frog puffed its cheeks and looked, for a moment, as though it really did sense there were things it could learn. “I used to be a man, I’d say ‘prince’ but I’m worried you’ll berate me for speaking the truth, and-”
“You’re explaining to me why I should kiss you while at the same time telling me I’m too irrational to handle facts? Is that where this conversation is right now?” Iris knelt so her eyes were inches from the frog’s face. “Let’s go over the facts right now, ok. One, you’re interrupting my walk to ask me for a favor; two, you’re making assumptions about who I am and then explaining why I don’t understand how your assumptions are correct; and three, you are confident this entire time that I will still somehow do what you want even though you have already proven disrespectful and entitled. Answer this: am I going to kiss you?”
“Miss, I can only explain to you why I think you should,” The frog chirped. Its eyes blinked solemnly as it grasped at being earnest for a split second. “If you’d let me get a word in edgewise…”
“Look here, JumpyFucklegs, you already have too many words and no concept of my edges. You are an official sphere of a water rodent.” Iris paused. She looked at her watch again, and back towards her house with a considering glance. She tilted her head and offered the frog the barest of teasing smirks with her shiny pink lips. She said, her face now close enough that the frog felt her breath along its back, “Maybe I have this all wrong.”
Her voice was silk like her shirt, light and fluid along her citrus scent. She whispered, “Why don’t you explain this to me one more time?”
The frog puffed its cheeks to begin its tale, and Iris threw back her head and laughed. The sound pealed through the trees and shook the frog’s bones. Its translucent bubble cheeks froze, too shocked by the sound to deflate. Iris removed one of her gloves, and extended a razor sharp red nail towards the creature. She pressed the nail against its cheek. She watched the slimy intent slide, frantic, from its eyes as fear and desperation filled its remaining seconds. She dug her nail in as her laughter died, sealed behind her sneer at the satisfying pop.
Iris chatted with her therapist while she ate dinner that night.
“You would not believe the tool I met on my day off today,” she said, her head against her shoulder with the phone in between. She sliced her food in quick, decisive, movements. She told her therapist about the conversation as she salted her plate. She described how disruptive it was to her meditative walk, how desperately she’d needed that quiet time and wouldn’t have another opportunity all week. She paused after she placed the forkful in her mouth, the emptied fork mid-air as she listened to her doctor. Finally, she smiled, swallowed, and licked her lips clean.
“Oh,” she replied. “We resolved it. He’s delicious.”
