A Table for Two
A table for two. An empty diner.
The cook was gagged and tied up in the kitchen.
My spine rubbed uncomfortably against the chair back.
My breath felt trapped.
The angular shape of the fork bit into my palm as I stabbed away at the steak.
Your gaze was unflinching. Those jet black, unblinking eyes bore holes. You were motionless but I knew you were ready to spring like a ruthless bird of prey. I’d seen you in action before.
I chewed my lower lip and coughed. Did you know that the gun in my other hand was empty? Did you count the bullets?
You slowly lifted your eyebrows and broke the uneasy silence.
“You never do anything halfway do you … ?”
I threw the fork onto the plate noisily and seized the gun in both hands ; waving it with as much menace as I could muster.
“You gave me no choice. Give it to me. Now.”
“Slowly. Very slowly.”
You reached into your vest and took out a small blue envelope.
As you reached over I sprung and whacked you over the head.
You collapsed sideways, sliding noiselessly to the floor.
That was easier than I feared.
What a wonderful bird for this weeks Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Thanks to our host Roger Shipp for finding it in Pixabay. I’ve since become a contributor over there but they have very exacting criteria for accepting pics so I’ve had quite a few rejected (smiles).