I didn’t think they existed, these men of magic and menace. At least, not here. And he’s not what I expected.
He arrives in a trench coat, gray and damp from December’s drizzle. His collar is turned up and he stands near the door – my door – a less than imposing figure, looking more like an imitation Sherlock than a voodoo witch doctor.
Spying from the kitchen counter, I stir cream in my coffee, slowly. His narrow frame is not tall. Hair trimmed close, the color of ash. He removes his coat with precision, revealing an argyle sweater and black slacks hemmed an inch too long. He turns my way and I drop the spoon nervously into the sink, the ting of metal on metal an embarrassed echo in the empty house.
So, yes, I'm trying my hand at fiction. Click on over to read the rest and if you like it, would love a wee vote. Ever grateful for your kind words and encouragement. xx
Especially that girl, right there. That face screams encouragement.