“I could always come and live with you.”
Her world tilts. Uncle Joe? In her apartment?
“You’re fine here, Joe. And they do let you smoke, within limits.”
“Five soddin’ fags a day,” he complains wheezily, “I could smoke all day at your place.”
You bloody well couldn’t, she rages, airways already narrowing at the prospect.
“Actually, I’ve rented out the spare room,” she lies, “a friend lost her job…”
“I’m family,” he whines, “I come first.”
“She’s nowhere else to be. You have.” Her voice hardens with resolve.
The visitors’ bell rings, freedom looms.
Alongside countless nights of relentless self-recrimination.
Only two more Friday Fictioneer posts to go before we see the end of this dreadful year. Thanks to Rochelle for anchoring us to a regular weekly point of sanity and diversion throughout 2020.