Page 12 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

The porch steps creaked beneath my feet. A cool breeze carried the scent of rain and rose. Home always smelled like books. Old paper, coffee, vanilla candles and just a hint of dust that no amount of cleaning ever seemed to conquer. Some people called it clutter. I called it atmosphere. Gerald called it a fire hazard. Frank called it “organized chaos.” Frank was my favourite for at least six seconds when he said that. The front door swung open with a familiar squeak.

A tiny voice echoed from somewhere in the living room.

“Took you long enough.”

I smiled.

“There she is.”

Rosemary stood proudly on the bookshelf, hands on her tiny ceramic hips. Pink hat. White dress. One chipped daisy painted across her apron. I don’t talk much to Rosemary. She likes to do her own thing. Usually, she is in the garden inspecting the roses but for today I brought her inside. She looked me up and down.

“…You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You’ve met a man.”

Gerald groaned.

“Here we go.”

“I can smell it.”

“You cannot smell romance.”

“I absolutely can.”

Frank climbed onto the coffee table.

“For the record…”

“He smiled.”

Rosemary gasped dramatically.

“He smiled?”

“It was… more of a polite smile.”

“IT COUNTS.”

Gerald pinched the bridge of his ceramic nose.

“It does not count.”

“It absolutely counts.”

“He was being courteous.”

“He was enchanted.”

“He was existing.”

“Same thing.”

I laughed.

“I don’t even know his favourite colour.”