“What on earth are you playing at?”
The department manager’s voice was icy.
Walter settled more comfortably into
the cushions. “Ain’t no sign saying we can’t sit here," and Doreen kicked off her shoes, dug her
toes into the artificial grass and rocked the swing seat.
The manager, aware of
the amused onlookers, kept his temper with an effort. “This is a display, not a
hotel.”
Walter handed over a fifty. “Doreen
was missing home, and this is the only grass for miles.”
At closing time the manager asked
them to come every day - sales of garden furniture had doubled.
.............................................................................
I am not a lover of cities, so I have a fellow-feeling for Walter and Doreen.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on https://rochellewisoff.com/ from which blog you can follow the link to read other interpretations of Marie Gale Stratford's photograph.
I am getting close to publishing my first novel, A Volcanic Race, on Amazon, and I'm up to my ears in proof-reading, composing a blurb, and trying to get my head round publicity. So please forgive me if I don't read every blog this week :)
