“Goddamn chores!” Sheila Robinson pushed the screen door, shooing flies, adjusting her violet hat and frumpy dress. Her eyes caught him standing against the ax cuts on the oak’s trunk.
“What’s that fella doing? He reminds me of this man I dated with curly hair, broad frame – Sam Taylor. Sex machine, that Sam… goddamn keys!”
“Mrs. Robinson, lemme help you Ma’am.”
“Thank you … who are you?” Her glasses wobbled as a fresh scent of mint touched her.
The stranger smiled as she settled and started the engine.
“Could he? Nah, mama said my baby was still-born.” She wiped a solitary tear and concentrated on the dusty road.
Word Count: 105
Above in response to Voice week 2103 – voice 2