Omission #3

The shower came. She felt the droplets soaking into her Floridian fabrics, cooling the tension off between her and the young stranger. 'Great, just great,' she thought. Rounding up a pretentious grin, “I didn't know it was the last night of October. Go back to the Haunted House,” she sneered. The child did not show any signs of being hurt or having been offended. The silence enveloped them both, and it was now her turn to feel awkward.

“Okay kid, I kid. I'm sorry.”

No answer.

“What's wrong?” she asked worriedly, her voice a tone softer. The child remained silent.

“Are you lost?” she asked again, now less of a concern than irritation. Stupid kids. She never liked babysitting. Still no answer. The soft hue of rain in dim streetlight was only deepening the silence. It tried her patience and all hell broke loose inside.

“Hey, if you want me to help you, you should tell me what's up! I said I'm sorry for what I said earlier – but I was just joshing with you – are you that great? Do you want me to get on my knees and beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty? Just who the heck are you, and what, do you want?”

She was shouting at the top of her lungs for good. Nice stress reliever, she thought. The university police was off duty tonight; students were too intoxicated and infatuated with the party charms to hear her in that ungodly hour. Anyway, she was pretty sure that no one would have heard her even if they were to walk by in broad daylight routines. Just like that – the unpleasant gut feeling of insecurity sank in. She was still facing the lad.

“Hullo?” she faked the reverent British accent. Finally, the sable eyes withdrew its gaze from dead air and looked up to her hazel pair. She managed a meager smile; his tender simper suddenly waxed devious and presently she caught him in a stiff embrace. As she enclosed in the child in her maternal instinct, she said, “Whoa, you startled me there. So you're from Britain after all?”

“Get me some food,” was the response.

'Imperial brat,' she stirred inside. But what the heck, at least he was showing some real signs of being alive. She said nothing and proceeded to get out her precious leftover Subway. The condensation from oven roasted chicken breast – combined with lettuce and green pepper – had soddened the honey oat. Oh well; it was still Subway. “Eat fresh,” she handed it to him.

Then the chow down began. Royally.