This is a wee morsel in response to Fandango’s prompt, Free.
Bryce didn’t know why people thought him dense. He preferred not to ponder it too much.
He was too busy, trying to get the lady from downstairs out – as quickly as possible.
“I hope a mug is alright.” He muttered. One day, he’d offer that lovely cup to his guests, without bitter tea burning the back of his throat.
The first three jangling beats rang out. He jumped to turn it off, so he didn’t feel papery hands on his, smell the scent of her clothes.
“What did you ask me again?” He asked, as he removed the bag too early. “Um, yes, if I have lived here long…” His voice trailed off, and he caught a whiff of the spiced mince pies she had brought. A scent of real pine trees and a flood of raised voices rushed into his head.
This morning, he had crawled, sick again, to the bowl. He looked at his own straight fingers, and knew they were hers.
He missed her soft question, asking if he was alright. He would never be…
“Free.”
“Free?” Donna asked him. Her creased forehead said ‘barking’. He knew the look well.
“I mean, three.” He cleared his throat. “Three months.”