The exercise:
Write about: the tattoo.
Sliced open the end of my right ring finger while doing the dishes after lunch. Now trying to avoid using it while typing, as it hurts like hell even through the band-aid.
If we didn't have to harvest for our local orders this morning we probably wouldn't have seen the garden today. With the forecast calling for more rain the next two days, I can see things getting a little out of hand out there this week.
Not having much success thus far with the whole typing pain-free thing.
Mine:
He finishes his meal and sets his cutlery on his plate noiselessly before reaching for his water. The glass has not yet returned to its place on the table before the waitress reappears at his side.
"All done there?" she asks and he nods his confirmation. "How was everything?"
"Oh, excellent, thank you." He speaks the lie without effort, his face betraying nothing. Truthfully, he'd rather have eaten a stray dog. One that was still alive and had some fight left in it.
"Wonderful," she says as she collects his dishes. "Can I tempt you with some dessert to top things off?"
"Absolutely! I think I'll have a slice of your apple pie." It seems the least likely item on the menu to be butchered as badly as his main dish had been. "And a top up of my water when you have the chance would be great."
He'd kill for a cup of coffee, but he fears the version they serve here might have the same dark intentions toward him. As the waitress moves away he steals another look at the tattoo peeking out from under her shirt at the base of her neck. But the lighting is so poor that he finds himself still unsure.
