She sat in the confessional, sipping.
A basketball knocked over my milk sending it flying.
"Nothing!" It felt odd calling someone that, but it wasn't like she had anything else to call him.
"What?"
"You spilled my milk!"
"Well you know what they say, no sense crying over spilt milk"
She laughed desperately trying to mop up the milk with her shirt.
As she walked home that afternoon it stained in a big brown patch, her mother sent it to the rubbish as a lost cause and she agreed. The shirt was once white and now had faded to a creamy brown that was never a good sign.
YOU ARE READING
Atticus and Indi.
SpiritualIndi is an atheist, vegetarian ; who orders chocolate milk from a juice bar every Wednesday. Four minutes later, she sits in a confessional sipping her milk that has been placed into a juice cup and talks of her life. On the other side of the scree...
