I fail sneaking in.
“You’re late,” she observes. Reclined in the armchair, she stops my heart with two chilled words. She arches a mordant eyebrow, and raises one foot to instruct me.
“Beseech my forgiveness by cleaning my boots. Use your tongue.”
“My entire collection hangs here,” Alistair said proudly, wiping an invisible speck of dust from the Indiana plate with a chamois. The hanging plates hung proudly from the ceiling with a wire-rack construction connecting them in vertical columns of eight. “I’ve done a lot of driving and vacationing to collect them all. Some I’ve traded by mail with other collectors, some I’ve recovered from junkyards and scrapheaps. A couple of plates came from car accidents. At this point, I’m short just three states.”
Sheila snapped a couple of more close-ups, and nodded, stifling a yawn behind the license-plate collector’s back. The recorder captured every detail for the blog, but honestly, she could not wait for some real assignments. These pure puff pieces were killers.
“Which three states are you still missing?” Sheila led with another question.
“I’ve got a colored states map downstairs in the basement, let me show you.” The basement door creaked as Alistair slowly pulled it open. Thumping and muffled screams arose from the darkness. Alistair quickly slammed the door and blocked it with his body.
“Perhaps not right now,” he stammered. “Isn’t the car out front yours? The blue Honda with Wyoming plates?”
197 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt: