Miss Margaret

Emotions spun around the room like the tails of multi-colored birds as Miss Margaret and Mr Scott sat across from each other in the teahouse.

“My it is a lovely day,” Miss Margaret twisted a ringlet of brown hair on her pinky finger.

“Why yes, it is,” Mr Scott said, sipping his tea absentmindedly but pointedly during the period of expected response.

“Have you spoken to your wife?”

Then Margaret smiled like a peacock with pride and feathers, all aloof in the forest—trees and vines feigning nonchalance. But he was not fooled. No, he was not to be fooled.