Rag-A-Muffin
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Post by Annie Hughes on Jun 11, 2017 15:49:34 GMT -6
The raindrops hit the cafe window, flowing down the glass as though racing to the bottom. Annie was drying up a damp patch where the window sealer had worn away. The dim flicker of neon casting a lambent glow over the street outside. It was dismal, no wonder there weren’t any customers that night. Annie disliked nights like tonight. They felt too quiet, every tick of the clock on the wall echoing around her, she felt so small on nights like this. She wiped the tables again. Then the seats. Polished the glasses. Dropped one on the floor, watched it smash into a thousand tiny shards. She sighed, grabbing a broom, she really did hate nights like tonight. As she placed the shards in the trash, she heard the smashing of glass from the back. Her fingers gripped the broom handle, her knuckles turned white. Her heart pounded inside her chest, echoing in her motionless legs, in her ears, pulling her in on herself in fear. Logic thought through panic. She was alone. There was no money in the register. The nearest phone was at the end of the street and the police station was ten blocks away. She forced her breathing steady, sliding her hand down the broom handle and moving it in front of her. She had to defend herself if it came to it. Surely she thought this has to be some small time crook, trying to break into a run down joint like this. Her hands gripped her broom harder, she could feel splinters embedding themselves in her palms. Her eyes fixed on the empty doorway, ears listening to the muffled tinker of broken glass underfoot. Please don’t have a gun! She stood transfixed as a shadowy figure approached the doorway, and her breath caught in her throat. Her hands slacked on the broom and it clattered to the floor. “You?” she gasped.
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