Thursday, January 03, 2013


“Did you find it yet?”

She looks at me across the chaos we’ve made of the place – papers spilled over dishes cleared from tables next to cushions flung from couches. The china cabinet remains unsullied, because I don’t want to be haunted unnecessarily.

She holds up a journal, old leather cover cracked, pages loose. “There’s this.”

“Girl! You see why I called you in. I tried for a year to find it.”

She looks at me like she usually does, lips pursed, slight frown, eyes trying hard to keep from rolling. “You’re the worst damned thief I’ve ever met.”

I’m not, of course. Well, I am bad at stealing things. That’s not my job. It’s hers. It’s why I hired her. That, and the curve of her waist where it meets her lush hips and the way her hair hangs over one eye with the perfect curl resting just above her breast. If I said so, she’d punch me in the face. I think. She might shoot me.

She’s the most exciting woman I’ve ever met, and I’m more than half in love with her. Which is bad, I know. Business and pleasure mixing and all that. I just can’t seem to care.

She tosses me the book, and I lunge for it. A single page escapes, flutters mid-air, hangs there. As it descends, I scream.

“What is your problem?” she snaps.

She couldn’t know. I never told her what's in that book, but she’s about to find out.

(written for Thursday Threads challenge here)

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