Marge Simpson Novels & Stories

“You need anything?” “Just a minute to breathe.” I stepped into the hallway, Koda blinking up at me, cheeks flushed from sleep. He smelled like syrup and sunshine and something that felt like home. Halfway to the bathroom, I heard the shuffle of slippers and the soft clink of bracelets. One of the old ladies—Marge, I think—flagged me down with a plastic grocery bag in hand. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said, her voice warm and raspy. “I heard you’ve got a little one running around now. Thought these might help.”

I loved how she tasted, both by herself and with my taste mixed in. Eventually we had breakfast. I put shorts on to bring breakfast in. Marge stayed covered in bed until the young delivery guy closed the door on his way out. We ate on the bed. I asked Marge what she did for the company besides answering the phone. She said was a trained accountant who was doing just a piece of that for the company. She also answered the phones sometimes when the receptionist needed a break. I asked if she knew about investments and stocks and such. She did. In fact she had invested enough from her forty thousand a year job to have a quarter of a mill in her accounts.

“That’s because somebody has to keep you alive.” Before I could answer, another voice drifted toward us. “Corbin, honey, I brought you two breakfast and coffee.” Marge appeared through the trees carrying a tray loaded with steaming cups and wrapped sandwiches. The woman had the supernatural ability to look put together at six in the morning while I looked like I’d crawled out of a battlefield. Honestly, maybe I had. “Thank the Moon Goddess,” Corbin breathed dramatically. “I was two minutes away from starvation.” “You ate an hour ago,” Marge said.