The great lummox shifts uneasily at my door.
He grips his cap like a shield, rotating it through calloused fingers.
“Sithee, I’ve 42 cows, 20 acres, and 16 sheep. Tha’ll want fer nuthin’…”
Seemingly appalled by his own effrontery, he clams up.
As proposals go, it’s not much; no hearts, no flowers.
But as women go, I’m not much either. Tall, buck-teethed, flat-chested.
“No turtle doves then?”
“Ah’ve got pigeons,” he cries. “Tons of ‘um … “
“Wonderful! No shortage of pies then.”
He recoils, horrified.
No sense of humour either.
He’ll have to do, though.
A repeat this week, my muse must have found a cooler place to reside than in my head. The ever-cool Rochelle hosts another week of Friday Fictioneers in her inimitable fashion, with a photo prompt guaranteed to bring the temperature down, if only in your imagination.