“Just a minute!” shouted a deep voice from the ceiling, before a boot crashed through a stained tile, sending soggy chunks raining down on Leslie’s head. “Crap.”
“What in the world?” she hissed, flicking a hunk of tile off her shoulder. This podunk place probably didn’t even have a decent dry cleaner, she thought, eyeing the water mark on her suit.
Booted feet slid out of the hole, followed by worn dusty jeans, a t-shirt and muscular arms. Leslie’s arms relaxed around her briefcase. She wouldn’t mind seeing that descend from her ceiling on occasion.
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Six Sentence Sunday