Frock of Rages

I heard someone yelling outside this morning.

It was Miss JJ…

 

…wanting her frock back. 

‘Howdy Miss JJ! C’mon in, I got your frock right here, all washed and dried and good as new.’ 

Since that ain’t the entire truth, I’ll admit to being a mite nervous when Miss JJ stepped into the house. Ain’t my fault that frock was the first thing to hand when I needed a rag to wipe down the stove. I figured it’d be fine after a soak in the creek, but no amount of soaping and scrubbing could get those stains out. Didn’t look no better when it dried, so I just folded it up all nice and tidy and left it on the table, with the stains on the underside.

‘Sure is good to see you Miss JJ. I’ll wait out back while you get changed. Just leave my clothes on the table.’




It’s been a while since I skedaddled out of the back door… ain’t heard no yelling yet.



Sure is quiet. 



Maybe she didn’t notice.



Maybe she’s gone home.



And maybe she ain’t.



Could be she’s boiling her anger, waiting on me coming back.



Could be she’s sneaking around right now, aiming to skewer me.



Hell, I ain’t taking the risk. I’m staying right here.