Sweet Jack


The kitchen … swamped. The piping under the trash dispenser had split apart again.

Jack was coming over to fix it. Sweet Jack.

His third visit for the same pipes.

I enjoyed his visits. In fact, every since my brother had set us up I had been finding more and more odd jobs that were suddenly immensely important needing to be fixed. (Brother Alfred hated to see his youngest sister an old maid…)

I was only home in the evenings for his visits… I always planned a unique supper… very spur of the moment.

The problem was… these broken pipes were not planned. And with the kitchen floor, and the dining room carpet, inundated with sludge, I could not impress Jack with my cooking.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Mom had always said.

That had been working… until Noah’s floods.

I was in tears when Jack pulled into the driveway. I quickly ran to the powder room, fixed my streaked face, tweaked my checks, and answered the door.

To my surprise, Jack was not alone. A tall, cover-hauled man was following him. A dark brown had pulled into the side driveway.

“Evening, Alice. Bringing in the heavy artillery for those pipes…. Grab yourself a sweater. There is a great little bistro next town over, I have been wanting to visit.”

Guess Mom was right?

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Requirements: Create a 200 words flash story using the photo prompt.


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