Itchy feet
Clare forced her feet flat on the pavement with every muscle, tendon and bone tensed and taut. Each of her ten toes tried to dance inside her shoes but she pushed down hard to stop them. This time she had to be organised. Going on foot simply wouldn’t suit, not today.
Clare stretched her neck to glimpse any sign of the taxi. Nothing.
Her brain was distracted by the click of the Adams’ front door and Clare’s itchy feet started up again.
Run. They wanted to run.
Clare saw Mrs Adams look at the packed suitcases stacked about her.
Don’t ask me where I’m going, she willed Mrs Adams.
‘Goodbye, love,’ said her neighbour.
Clare nodded, relieved.
Her taxi arrived. The driver’s eyes flickered at her face. He breathed in sharply but stayed silent.
The taxi pulled away with Clare and her possessions inside. Her feet calmed.
Back on the pavement in the street outside Clare’s house, Mrs Adams feet started to itch.
Broken, a collection of my short stories, is available on Amazon for Kindle now here
