A Noir Fiction Short Story for Anyone to Read and Hopefully Enjoy!

This is a little story I wrote for my school newspaper's Valentine's Day contest.  A college that I really want to attend has wait listed me, and is asking me for things that I've done since I applied there.  This story seemed popular, but the only feedback I received was from friends and family, so I figured that I might set it loose on here to see what you guys think.  It's something of a parody of noir fiction, and I hope you guys like it.  Feel free to (in fact, please do) leave constructive criticism or a reaction in the comments.

P.S. On the off chance that any college admissions people are reading this, any sort of advice on how to impress these counselors and get off the wait list will be really appreciated!

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            I sit, hunched over my desk as usual.  As I rifle through the papers on my desk, dust floats through the air, just visible in the sunset shining through my office’s grimy window.  I find myself flipping the switch on the lamp to read the case facts more clearly. Grimy is a good word. It could probably describe my entire office; even this section of the city.  Just walking to the diner, one might trip over as many trash cans as homeless folk.  As I mull over what meager evidence I have, the door—already ajar—swings open further.  In walks trouble.  She silently makes her way over to my desk, and sits down on it, nearly knocking the lamp over.  I grab it by its grubby brass shade, setting it right again.

            “I have chairs for a reason, you know,” I say to her, “Two of them. You walked right past both.”

            No response. The silent treatment.  That can only mean one thing: I’ve forgotten something. 

            “I’m busy now, so if you’ve got nothing to say, you may as well say it somewhere else.”  Again, nothing from her end but a long stare with piercing green eyes.

            “Alright, spit it out.  What haven’t I done now?” I ask, shutting the file on my documents.  They seemed less important, seeing as they weren’t silently threatening to eviscerate me.  From just beyond her soundless form, I see my clock, the only piece of my workspace I regularly dust.  There’s a small marking on it, just past the 8 o’clock marking.  I don’t tell my clients this, but that’s when Gianni’s has happy hour. 

            “Seven thirty…” I muse aloud.  Then it hits me like the city bus. “Dinner. Of course.”

            She continues glaring, but her left eyebrow raises a fraction of an inch.  A man can feel more idiotic under her gaze than under a pile of critical letters.   She means the world to me, but I’ll be damned if she can’t be one unforgiving broad. 

            “Well, I’ll see what I can do to make it up to you,” I claim, but we both know it’s the same flimsy lie I tell every time this happens. “C’mon, let’s see if I can’t fix something up for you that’ll help you forgive and forget.”

            We both stand up.  I throw my jacket over my shoulder, my .38 in a drawer, and the case in a filing cabinet.  No more detective work tonight.  She starts at the loud clunk made by the heavy revolver against the drawer, but quickly regains her composure.  She fancies herself the unflappable sort.

            It isn’t too far to my kitchen and the dinner table, but it feels like I’m walking the Israelites across the Red Sea, with the Pharaoh right behind me.  Ordinarily, I’d consider myself lucky with what I find in the icebox.  Enough leftover Chinese for two people’s dinner, or two nights if you’re alone.  It would last two nights; she doesn’t like Oriental Chow’s sauce.  Had I more money, I might agree with her, but Chow, he cooks cheap food, and a lot of it.

            I pour half of the paper box onto a plate, and get ready to dig in, when I see her watching me.  I’ve forgotten her meal.  Again.

            “Of course, none can eat before milady,” I grunt at her, dropping my greasy fork with a clatter.   I stand up, moving to the pantry.  “Only the best for you, right?” Open the pantry.  “I have to go shopping again.  This is my last tin.  Enjoy ‘em.”

            I peel back the thin lid, revealing the sardines within.  They stare at me with their brine filled eyes, and I look back, happy to see something that wasn’t furious with me.  I pour them into a bowl, and set them on the floor.  Finally, those slit pupils are focused on something other than my own failure. 

            Soon, speaking through a mouthful of the cheapest Moo Goo Gai Pan money can buy, I tell her, “Cat, I love ya to death, but sometimes you scare the hell outta me.”