Visibly irritated, I answer the door. My show starts in fifteen minutes. I’ve been itching to know who killed Littlefinger.
A beaming young man thrusts a box of sweets at me. No sooner do I take them than he’s attempting to touch my feet. Stop! No!
“Thank you, aunty. All your blessings.”
Whose aunty? What blessings?…
And suddenly the cobwebs clear.
My maid Kamala frantically arriving last night. (Yes, right before primetime!) “Madam, my son has interview in big company. College says he must wear shoes. Please madam.” The frantic hunt through my son’s old shoes…
“You got the job?” I squeal.
“Come, come,” I call him in. Littlefinger can wait.
In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 22 September, based on the photo by Sarah Potter.