Back Coffee –100 Word Wednesday; Week 23
Of all the off beat diners in town Alma picked my haunt, Pearl’s.
‘Discrete,’ she said, ’it’s not in our neighbourhood.’
Yea, she’s a dame all right, black coffee, eggs over easy with chilli wings.
Seated with her long stockinged legs swinging, I know her type, a derringer inside her garter.
She nodded at the papers and photo on the bar, then offered to buy me a coffee. How sweet.
‘Just sign,’ she said, ‘or . . . she’s dead meat.’
The picture said it all; Pearl’s eyes petrified and pleading, mascara running over the taped mouth, body trussed like a turkey.
I agreed, it wasn’t a great holiday snap.
I signed, and I let my lousy wife, Alma, walk away with a million dollar settlement.
Five minutes later, Pearl came screaming in, and she levelled a .45 Magnum at my forehead.
I’ll admit, she had a point.