Something’s dreadfully wrong, thought José, sipping the Pina Colada she’d bought him.
The woman positively gleamed with perspiration, the cotton fabric between her ample breasts slowly darkening. Humidity had frizzed her grey hair into slick curls.
He seized her swollen hands, re-valuing her rings once more. They’d need to be cut off, he thought idly.
“But what about us?” he whined.
“There is no us, dear,” sighed Mrs Stone.
“Take me back with you,” he pleaded. “We’ll marry.”
“But I need you.”
She pressed a roll of banknotes into his hand.
“You need this honey, and I need to go home now.”
As the dust settles after last week’s little ‘furore’ (thanks Helena 🙂 ) Friday Fictioneers are smoothing down their feathers and returning to the bird table. Rochelle is keeping everyone in order in her usual inimitably gracious and diplomatic manner – thanks Rochelle. My participation this week looked less likely as the morning wore on, the story didn’t work and the muse proved stubbornly elusive, but when all else fails I rely on an age old solution: re-write it from a different POV.