Mrs Robinson slid off the kitchen table, smoothing her skirt over her knees.
It would be nice, just occasionally, if he’d stay awhile afterwards, perhaps share a glass of wine, a cupcake even.
As ever though, his mind was now elsewhere. She studied his muscular back, remembering a time when …
He turned, his dispassionate gaze raking her body from head to toe.
His face softened slightly, as though comprehending her needs, her frailties.
“If you’ll show me where the dustpan and brush are, I’ll sweep these up for you, shall I?” he asked, indicating the yellowed toenail clippings on the kitchen floor.
Why? Whatever were you thinking? An outing for another retread, this time from six years ago. Thanks once again to Rochelle for her leadership of the Friday Fictioneers.