Sylvie was rummaging through the dusty cardboard box in the attic.
“Wish I hadn’t bragged to Moira at the butcher’s that I had just this morning received a postcard from my Paul who is in Italy on important business right now.”
Moira had started asking probing questions as to where in Italy and when Sylvie had told her Venice her voice had gone all squeaky with excitement as to how she herself had always wanted to go to Venice. Ah, to be taken up and down that canal in one of them gigolos or whatever these boats they had there were called had been a teenage dream of hers.
And now she wanted to see the damn postcard!
Of course Sylvie hadn’t told Moira that Paul was gone for good and would never be back in her life. Sylvie sneezed. The dust up here was getting up her nose and into her eyes.
“Why on earth did I say Venice,” she muttered to herself.
Twice now she’d gone through the contents of the little box. Lots of postcards which her parents had kept. No Venice though.
Benji was barking downstairs, then started whining. Sure sign of someone at the door and that someone not being a stranger. Sylvie sighed and gave up on her attic mission.
“Hiya Moira. Come on in,” she said as she opened the front door, “I’ll put the kettle on. You sit down there. I’m afraid Benji ate Paul’s postcard while I was out shopping.”
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2012