Like Slow Sweet Molasses by Unknown Page B

discover the flower as
she prepared to leave for the day. The interesting part—she recalled locking
her classroom and he still gained access. The rose hanging in the latch of her
storm door at home that same evening froze her in her tracks. He presumed too
much taking a step over the imaginary line she had no intentions of crossing.
    She
swept thoughts of Mrs. Thatcher’s kin to the side to make room for fresh ones
related to the ladies-only function later this afternoon at the jazz club’s
grand opening. Since it was a birthday party for a co-worker, Angela raced to
her bedroom dead set on dressing and arriving early enough to assist with the
preparations for their table. Sheryl, the honoree, bragged about the owner’s
generosity of sharing the spotlight on such an auspicious occasion. Her
reserved table would seat her guests in the center of all activities.
    Angela
smiled while sliding hangers aside in her walk-in closet, remembering the high
energy conversation with the younger woman who gave thrilling details of the
suave proprietor and his enchanting smile. Sheryl’s version of the interaction
alluded to feelings of love at first sight which in turn spoke to her naiveté.
There was a time she held love or the prospect thereof in high esteem like
Sheryl. Of course, age had a bearing on that immature outlook. Life’s
experiences wobbled the hope right out of her.
    The
wash of warm water stripped away the impurities of her past life creating a new
creature—one open to the exploration of the unknown. She toweled herself dry,
applied a scented cream to keep her skin moistened, slipped on her undies,
wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and caught a glimpse of movement out
of the corner of her eye. But, that couldn’t be for she was home alone.
    Angela
sprang into action securing covering for her body, keeping as quiet as humanly
possible while leaving the confines of the bathroom.
    “Who’s
there?” Complete silence answered her. “I know you’re there.”
    Tiptoeing
into the room with ears attuned to any noise, she sidled to the bedroom door to
ease it shut, heart quivering because she was afraid to venture any farther.
There wasn’t a thing she could do except lock herself in and call 911 to report
the break-in. She clothed herself properly surprised at how swiftly sirens
split the air in front of her home. The emergency operator held her on the line
until the authorities knocked on her door announcing their arrival. Fear
harnessed her steps lengthening the time it took her to approach the front
door. The decorative glass permitted slashes of the red strobe lights to
penetrate the room while concealing the person’s features.
    “Miss
Munso. NOPD.” The loud knocking was an accompaniment to the swirling whoop
sounds blaring from the cruiser in the street. “Miss Munso!”
    Angela
threw open the door to see a pimply faced officer who looked young enough to be
one of her former students. Her level of confidence plummeted with this
development. The way her eyes jumped from him to his vehicle to the faces now
beginning to crowd the street and back to him revealed her uneasiness.
    “You
reported a prowler?” he asked, tapping his name tag to set her mind to rest.
    Her
shaky tone of voice had her pause to catch a steadying breath. “Yes. Someone
was in my bedroom.”
    “I
need to search the premises.”
    “Please
do.” Angela gladly acquiesced, taking in his silent travels through her home.
Unlike last time when instructed to stay behind, she did as told, watching from
the open doorway.
    “Angela!”
    The
alarm in the voice from across the fence pushed her out onto the porch.
    “I’m
okay, Mrs. Thatcher. Don’t come over here until I know it’s safe.” Knowing her
neighbor, she’d just spoken Greek to the elderly woman who proved it so, for
Angela heard her cussing up a storm as she made her way through the mob before
spying her on the walkway. “Mrs. Thatcher.”
    “Look,
Sweet Child,