It had just turned 11am. The knock on the door was expected, but still startling. He opened it and there she was. Just, there. Five-foot two in heels, scarlet two-piece suit, neat black handbag, tan briefcase in her right hand, the ominous bulge visible even then.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”.
She smiled, sweetly and tilted her head slightly to the right. He took two steps back. She entered, went straight into the kitchen, looked round once and placed the briefcase on the table.
He went and stood by the sink, watching whilst she unclipped it and reached inside. The bulge seemed to writhe and come alive. Carefully withdrawing it, she ordered him to kneel on the floor and close his eyes.
“Any requests or last words before I begin?”, but he’d already reached his limit.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”.
She smiled, sweetly and tilted her head slightly to the right. He took two steps back. She entered, went straight into the kitchen, looked round once and placed the briefcase on the table.
He went and stood by the sink, watching whilst she unclipped it and reached inside. The bulge seemed to writhe and come alive. Carefully withdrawing it, she ordered him to kneel on the floor and close his eyes.
“Any requests or last words before I begin?”, but he’d already reached his limit.
Glyn Phillips - sometime poet and avid word-tinkerer, Black Country born and bred, Brumagem worn-of-thread. Rarely happier than when spewing out polysyllabic nonsense with ribald abandon to anyone who will listen.
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