“Get them boots offa the table Fred.” Marion’s face screwed up as she spat her words with venom.
“Love, believe me, them boots are magic.”
“Baloney. Get rid of ’em or I will.” Fred remained motionless, watching Marion put on the coffee pot.
“I’m orf to bed love.”
“I’m not tired yet.”
“No wonder all that coffee you poured down yourself.” He lumbered off, yawning and soon his snores rumbled around the hut. Marion picked up the boots but in place of the bin was an Indian Village. An Indian squaw sat beside her.
“Well I’ll be danged. Fred’s right.”
Thank you to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Adam Ikes for providing the photo prompt this week.