There’s an air of orderliness about him that I wouldn’t have expected.
But when she brings in the tea, pale amber liquid, baby-pink wafers, china cups with impossibly diminutive handles, I understand more clearly.
She sits, primly smoothing her skirt, watching us, bird-like.
When the phone rings she leaves us.
“You’ve changed,” I say. “I’d never have imagined…”
“No you’ve changed,” he interrupts haughtily, “there was a time when nothing was beyond your imagination.”
The barbs still fly. Old wounds still fester.
There’s something reassuring about vintage hostilities though; they can keep you warm in a world gone cold with indifference.
A belated Happy New Year to all Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle for leading us into what we hope is a better one for all of us, wherever we are.