AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Alex
Mistletoe Macbeth sips from her coffee cup while she thinks about how to start her story. Her gaze is fixed on the ground, and her forehead is creased in a frown. Juliette told me that Finn’s mother had a permanently sunny disposition, but it’s clear that this morning her emotion is overwhelming her.
She’s wearing a light-gray pantsuit with a white shirt and a pair of nude-colored, strappy sandals with stiletto heels. How do women walk in those all day? Her toenails and her fingernails bear an elegant French tip.
Her dark hair is wound in a tight bun, but a thick strand spirals past her cheek, curling like a silk ribbon. She has full lips with a marked Cupid’s bow, and dark-blue eyes. Her left hand still bears her wedding ring.
“What do you want to know?” she asks.
“Tell me a bit about yourself,” I reply. “What wasn’t in the reports. Just so I can build up a picture of Finn and his home life.”
“Okay… um… well… I’m twenty-seven, twenty-eight on December the twenty-third, hence the Christmassy name. It was my father’s idea. I still haven’t forgiven him.”
“It’s certainly different.”
“How very diplomatic of you.”
“Diplomatic is my middle name,” I tell her.
She gives a short laugh. “I teach at Clifton Primary School.”
“What’s your degree in?”
“Art. And I know what you’re thinking—it explains the flakiness.” She meets my eyes, and her eyebrows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds.
“Like what?”
“Like you think I’m batshit crazy.”
“I’m really not. It’s just my normal face.”
“Your expression hardly changes. You’re a very difficult guy to read.”
“I’m laughing on the inside.”
“Well, perhaps you should laugh on the outside occasionally, just to let the other person know you’re not apoplectic with rage.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
She obviously doesn’t know what to make of me. “Being flaky isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” she states.
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
“I have a feeling that you’re the type of guy who detests flakiness.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Let’s say it’s my sixth sense.” She points a finger at me. “I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“You raised your eyebrow.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You don’t believe in intuition?”
“Of course I do.”
