"Aaliyah,
My dearest. I pray you receive this in time. If you did, I'm glad..."
My fingers quivered as I scanned across the page. It was a short letter and after the first three lines were concise probably because of the small amount of time allotted to the writer.
"Joseph."
I sighed as I restored it to its position in the old bureau I found in the attic.
"Aaliyah!?" I heard the door downstairs slam shut. I ran down the wooden, shaky stairs.
"Aaliyah?" Prisha yelled once more, her heavy Hindi tongue struggling to shorten the second syllable in my name. I ran up behind her and gave her a warm hug. She smelled like curry and the bag in her hand told me why.
"I got curry," she turned to me and held up the bag. "And some fruits too."
___
We were in the kitchen now and I was moving from stove to cupboard sorting out our dinner. We had guests. It had to be potato flatbread and sweets, her delight.
"I think the grocery guy likes me," she preened.
"Why wouldn't he?"
"'Cause of the girl that works there," she pouted. "She's so pretty..."
"Not prettier than you."
"You've never seen her! You don't even go out!"
I glared up at her and she went silent of both movement and sound.
"But it's true," she whined.
I stopped after putting all the seasoning into the pot. To look at her. A queer feeling rose inside me. Then came the guilt.
I wanted to tell her so badly.
YOU ARE READING
And He, Her
Short StorySometimes it's best to keep quiet. Not that you want to. You just have to You have to let the criminal get away. Even if you're the victim Before yo...
