“I insist,” she said to no one in particular as she slathered an additional layer of Fluff onto the graham cracker in preparation for the slab of Hershey’s that would soon complete her masterpiece.
“There. It is done.”
And within seconds, it was.
“I prefer to stand,” she said through teeth gritted with barely-contained hostility.
A young man had offered her his seat.
She had just entered middle age.
#shortstory #threesentencestory
“The only exceptional thing about you is that you are throughly unexceptional!” And with that, and the throaty laugh that accompanied it, Alexandra Haversmith made it clear that a second date was not a possibility.
She returned her full attention to the remainder of the Manhattan that she had been drinking as if it was life’s blood itself, and glanced about to be sure that she had been overheard by all surrounding parties.
One’s reputation, after all, was all.
“Way to go, Genius!” he said to no one in particular as he realized that the gas he’d been pumping was spurting out onto his hand and dribbling down his pant’s leg.
He released the handle and hurriedly put it back in its cradle, and then shook his hand and leg simultaneously while shaking his head in reprimand for having caught himself daydreaming again.
“Well, that’s what you get Old Boy,” he said with a gentler tone, again to no one in particular. As was often the case in such situations, he was abrasive with himself at first, turning compassionate after a bit, as he knew that he’d always been a daydreamer and probably always would be a daydreamer.
No sense berating a skunk for its stripe, he thought, pleased that he’d found such a fitting analogy. “Let’s get a move on then,” he said with a bit of pep. And as he pulled away from the station, a tune found his lips and he started to whistle.
She was always fashionably late, and was certainly not going to change stripes this late in the game.
They could all just await her presence. After all, wasn’t this supposed to be her big day?
She poured another sherry, and returned to the debate of veil or no veil. It felt as if her entire future happiness was dependent on this decision.
Her mother felt the veil was gaudy. The seamstress who had created it was understandably biased in its favor.The dresser had an opinion but no one asked it of her.
She gazed at her reflection, and contemplated herself from her own superior taste. The veil felt right, but some adjustment to the angle was needed.
She set her face back into its public expression and unlocked the boudoir door, ready at last to enter into her future.
Beyond the Skinny Branches 