There's a T-Rex in My Closet

I knew it was going to be one of those days when I opened the closet door, looking for something to wear to work and there stood a miniature t-rex with one of my shirts in each hand, and ruby stilettos on her feet.  The row of rhinestone studs running down her chartreuse spine did nothing to allay my rising nausea.

She glanced from one fuchsia tipped hand to the other at the knit shirts grasped with delicate care.  “I just can’t decide which one.  No, these will never do.”  She dropped them onto the pile growing at her feet and took two more from the hangers. 

“What the…?” I gargled out.  I rubbed my eyes with too much vigor, but the apparition didn’t go away.

The t-rex turned to face me.  “Oh, there you are, honey.  I didn’t hear you come in.  Don’t you have anything with more pizzazz?”  She held the blouses toward me.  “These are boring, boring, boring.

“But…you’re a t-rex.”  I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She smiled showing huge incisors and batted her long lashes at me.  “Give this girl a prize,” she said.  Then she asked, “Rough morning?”

I nodded.  Or at least I think I did.  I know a trickle of spit oozed down my chin.

“Aw, poor baby,” T-rex said.  Then she reached into a pocket and withdrew a fine linen handkerchief edged with delicate pink lace.  “Here’s a hanky, wipe your chin, doll face.” 

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Looking for something to wear to work.  What are you doing here?”  Two more shirts and a corduroy skirt floated to the floor.

“But t-rexs don’t wear clothes.  Besides that, they don’t work.”  I was starting to babble.  “They can’t talk either.”

“A lot you know, dumpling.”  She pawed through the clothes hanging on the opposite side of the closet.  “I’m an m-rex.  T-rexs are too mundane.  And dull, dull, dull.

“Oh, look!” she squealed and pulled out a dyed feather boa that I’d bought for Halloween last year. “And it’s my favorite color, vermillion!  Now, this is more like it.”

“I…I…I…”  My mind was about to short circuit.  “There’s no such thing as an m-rex.

“That’s short for margarita-rex.  You can just call me Emmy for short.”

I slammed the mirrored sliding door shut with a bang, flipped off the light and prepared to run.

“Yoo hoo,” Emmy yodeled.  “Where are you going, buttercup?  You haven’t even looked for something to wear.  You’ll be late to work.”

She slid the door aside and stuck her snout through the crack.  “My, dear girl, you look rather green around the gills.”

“I think I’m going to be ill.  I bolted to the bathroom and reached the toilet just in time.  Hunkered on my knees on the cold tile, I gripped the even colder porcelain throne.  My stomach erupted through my nose bringing up my toenails for the ride, tied itself in knots and then snapped back into place.

“Gag, gag,” a voice floated from the bedroom followed by a raucous laugh.

“Go away, Emmy,” I yelled.

“Are you sure, lovey?  I always hate being alone when I’m sick.”

“Just go away!”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, sweetums.”

Then I heard a gurgling pop, pop and all was quiet.

I think I dozed with my cheek resting on the rim of the toilet.  When I woke up I was sweating and shivering all at the same time.  “Emmy?” I whispered.

No answer, so I pulled myself up by the boot straps and tiptoed into the empty bedroom.  I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head…but I just had to know.

I stood in front of the closed door for at least five minutes, mustering my courage to look inside.  I couldn’t hear a thing and almost convinced myself not to look.  But then I heard that annoying, singsong voice.  “Wasted away again in Margaritaville, Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt.”

“Emmy!” I screamed, and swept aside the door.  The closet was empty.  No chartreuse, miniature t-rex wearing ruby stilettos and rhinestone studs down her back.  But there was a rumpled pile of discarded clothing tossed aside by the enigmatic m-rex, Emmy.