Wednesday must be what-the-hell day. Short things want me to post them on my blog; they don't care. Walk-the-talk Wednesday. Something new. Is it flash fiction, do I need to invent a name? I think there will be more where this came from. Be patient. And if it's a terrible idea, I will survive hearing about it.
It was a summer morning. Rose Tortora gave that sales guy a real cuffing. We had watched him muscle what looked like hedgehogs, porcupines with wooden handles, out of his sample bag. Nobody ever buys anything on this street, he carped, bitter as sweaty hands grabbed the sample brushes back from my mom. Not today, she told him, the kindly let-down. Rose might as well have grabbed his collar, how she spun him around with her words. No one here will buy from you again, talk to us like that. Didn't they teach you any better? He always seemed wormy to me, pale loser radiating like an atomic glow, sagging shoulders, too many sighs. But when he showed up the next month, he was less minus-seeming than before. A lot more polite. Mom looked at the whole line before picking a vegetable scrubber and whisk broom. Dad hung the whisk broom on a peg over the workbench. I got to scrub the potatoes.