The Way Home
Copyright© 2019 by barbar
Chapter 2
Slap file closed. Into out-tray. (thunk) Look at watch. Time to go. Time for my little girl.
Pick up briefcase. Two files from in-tray. Drop into briefcase. Close brief-case. (click-click)
Check reflection in window. Straighten tie. Pull door closed. (snick)
Wave to receptionist. “Good night Molly.”
“Good night, Mr Richardson. See you tomorrow.” (such a melodic voice)
Keep walking. No time to chat. My girl will be waiting.
(Traffic noise) Two blocks of bland faceless crowds. (half-heard conversations)
Turn right into park. (birds singing) No more crowd. Longer strides. No time to dawdle. My girl will be waiting.
Park bench is filled with memories – and a man.
He shifts his head. Tilts it to one side. Listens to my approaching footsteps.
“Hello?” His voice is tentative, unsure, lost.
He seems to be middle aged, tallish, a slight olive tint to his skin. He wears a neat grey suit, looks professional.
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