Bernadette Braganza

I walk into the little tent. It smells musty as though the rays of the sun haven’t peeked through this place for decades.
“You are on time as always.” I look in the direction of the voice. I see the bent lady with wrinkled skin stirring a pot of shiny liquid with a bamboo ladle. Besides her is a candle which time and again she uses to keep the fire in her stove lit. Ahead of her is a huge pile of leaves.

“You must have left all the trees leafless,” I say indicating the pile of leaves. She just smiles concentrating on the pot in front of her. Outside you can hear a blackbird singing.

Behind her are a few paintings. Probably of when she was young. Or maybe not. They are too dirty to be clear. My attention again goes back to her as she pours the soup from the pot into a bowl asking, “so what did your wife burn today.”

I sigh replying, “I’m not so sure. If only she could cook well enough.” The lady shakes her head, drinking her own bowl of soup. “If only you’d dare to tell her that.”

Picture by Janet Webb. As part of Friday Fictioneers. Prompts by the Sunday Whirligig.