She had not even asked whether the money belonged to her.
Harold watched the exchange with an expression of complete disbelief.
“Martha,” he whispered, “I am beginning to suspect you have a plan.”
“Harold, I am seventy-three. Plans are one of the few luxuries I can still afford.”
Brittany leaned back again, allowing her hair to spill over the seat.
That was when I opened the slime.
I did not throw it at her. I did not touch her head or pull at her extensions.
Instead, I took a small amount and worked it into the ends of the hair that she had deliberately left hanging across my tray table.
I knew perfectly well that I was doing something unkind.
At the time, I told myself it was a lesson she needed.
Perhaps that was partly true.
Perhaps I was also an angry old woman who had finally lost her temper.
