He had dawdled too long with breakfast and he was going to be late to visit his grandmother, who was the kind of person who showed up so early for a dinner appointment that the restaurant wasn’t even open yet.
Well, he hadn’t dawdled so much with breakfast, which consisted of a mindnumbingly sweet bowl of Lucky Charms, as at breakfast, where he had read the latest polls for the upcoming election. It’s gonna be a toss-up…
He hopped on his bike and pedaled down the hill, through the neighbourhood of gated villas, past the school where he’d once attended as a young tot, and along the river and toward the woods, ponytail streaming behind his head.
At the end of the road leading up to the woods was a small beige bungalow. Slightly out of breath, he locked his bike to the garden fence, walked up to the door and rang the bell.
Footsteps, then a fumbling of the bolt. Just as the bolt was being slid back he remembered to pull up his baggy shorts.
“Nana! Good morning,” he beamed.
“You’re twelve minutes late, Jack. And what’s your shirt say?” She squinted down at his t-shirt.
– 10:40-10:55pm, Day 3, 30-Day Writing Challenge, making me realise how little joy I derive from writing physical descriptions of imaginary things and places