Thirteen days.
I sighed.
Alice was leaning over the freezer, and I was trying not to speculate on the survival prospects of the entirely inappropriate cordovan stretched dangerously tight across her expansive fundament. She found what she was after, layered ice cream, cream, syrup and sprinkles into a soup plate, and brought it to the table.
She knows that her ‘one little afternoon treat’ just to ‘make up for being so good’ completely vitiates her morning’s self-inflicted purgatory. Knows it perfectly well, and has sworn, time and again, to put an end to it. The thirteenth of January … actually, by her usual standards, that isn’t so bad.
She looked up, and I struggled to meet her eye.
“Did you do any better, honey?”
Knowing what my resolution had been, she understood me perfectly when I answered
“You’d know all about it if I’d broken mine.”
“And I know you’d …” there was a little bead of sweat on her lip “… lie with a smile …”
She ran out, and I sighed again.
Thirteen days, but she had beaten me.
My resolution? No more pranks, however deserving the recipient.
The syrup has been laced with emetics for almost a week.
Written for the Monday Mixer – why not pop over and take a look at the other entries?
Alex Brightsmith 