500 Words In 15 minutes For Wendy Tyler Ryan's M Blogfest

Wendy Tyler Ryan is celebrating a blogging anniversary. With a blogfest! (I found this via Laura - thanks ). Use all of the following "M" words, make it dark, and keep it under 500 words. There's a linky on Wendy's blog, so why not have a stab at it? (Pun intended.) And, although I keep complaining about my work load, I can't pass on a flash prompt. So here goes. Mambo, mongrel, misty, myth, musky, moon

I was hoping Mark would take me someplace swanky for my birthday, but of course he dragged me to that infernal dive, the Mambo Cafe. It was supposed to be a bit of “Old Florida”, but that was just a fancy way of saying it looked like a fishing shack where sweaty old guys in undershirts sat belching and scratching mosquito bites all night. In keeping with the “authentic atmosphere”, it was even furnished with resin tables and lawn chairs. As we walked toward it, I could smell the distinctive odor of low tide salt marsh; briny, musky, and underlined by a broad stroke of decay. Even the moon, hanging low on the horizon, seemed to be on the decorator's payroll; it resembled nothing more than a very large, slightly rancid egg yolk.

The grass rustled in the nearby dunes, and I twitched nervously. He slung an arm roughly around my shoulders.

“S'matter, babe? Jumpy?”

Somehow, at that moment, I decided that tonight would be the night I left him for good. I'd had enough of being treated like trash. It wasn't that I needed expensive gifts and dinners; had we been poor, I would have been happy with a hamburger at McDonald's. But he had money, plenty of it. It just got spent on boats, gambling, and booze. I had begun formulating an escape plan when a fleeting shape caught my eye. I jumped again and let out a small shriek.

I instantly felt embarrassed. It was just a dog, a thin, wary looking mongrel, with a lolling tongue and all of his ribs showing. His eyes met mine, and they were so large and dark and hungry that I felt in my pocket for the stick of beef jerky I'd been nibbling on earlier. But just as I was about to toss it to him, Mark reached down, picked up a stone, and threw it at him. I winced and felt my eyes tear up as I saw the dog flinch. He ran a few paces and stopped, watching us. I slowly held up the jerky so he could see it, and was careful to throw it to the side of him. I fancied the mongrel looked at me gratefully before turning and trotting off.

On the walk home, through the misty scrub pine, came a howl and a whine. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

“You know the myth of the Hound of the Baskervilles, right?” asked Mark.

“It's a story, not a myth,” I replied automatically.

“You're such a little snot,” he said, grabbing me roughly.

It came for Mark, but left me quite alone.

I looked at him gratefully.