She confidently enters the small room,
her wild, blond hair bouncing like MTV. Short, tight, purple skirt. Skinny black top. Black stilettos. Bubblegum.
“Are you Arthur?” she chews, her voice somewhere between tigress and molten caramel.
“Uhm, eh, yes. You must be Sasha. Will you close the door, please?” the old man breathes, huskily – he has been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.
She closes it with gusto, returning to the chair in front of the net curtains.
“Okay if I sit here?” she bubbles, fun in her eyes, a light draft causing the curtains to billow behind her like a ship setting sail.
He smiles, nostrils flaring as he drinks in the sight of her.
“Eh … Which literary magazine do you represent, again, Sasha?”
“Magazine? Hahaha, no, no. I’m interviewing you for school. Reception said you love talking about yourself,” she activates the voice recorder on her smartphone.
The old man looks at the badly worn brown carpet, then into white light streaming through the net curtains.
– end –
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