Small Talk

Twenty questions again. How he hated it.

If at least people asked directly it would be a clean death. These oblique questions were torture. He’d tried evasion. “I work for the government.” It didn’t help, just drew the painful process out.

Unfortunately, he was a bad liar: he’d stammer or choke. He blushed to recall the amazed and unbelieving looks. “I work for a business consultancy”, whatever that meant. Once, in a panic, “I’m a funeral director.”  Well, everything was better than the truth.

The shifty looks. The mumbled excuses.

My name is Peter and I am a tax inspector.

This week’s challenge from T.Mastgrave: Taxes.

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Delft

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