Judi bit her lip hard to keep from giggling as Big Jim cowered against the shed door. Before the urge left her, Big Jim stood up and brushed the dust off his “father of the quarterback” sweatshirt.
“Little buggers leap like that – they probably have rabies.” He panted. “You sure he didn’t bite you?”
Judi displayed her unpunctured palm. “I think I’m okay.”
From Sucker for a Hot Rod, Astraea Press
Six Sentence Sunday