Bedelia would not open her door…safety first, she spoke with the man through a locked window.
“Ma’am, I mean you no harm, I’m here about your roof—the present angle indicates sagging; if I don’t check it out, it may collapse.”
Her voice, muffled by the double-glazed windows, insisted she’d not phoned anyone regarding the roof.
He fishes a company ID card from his shirt pocket, holds it up against the oval pane in her door (perhaps she’ll recall).
Opening the door slightly, Bedelia frowns him up and down—“You do know, don’t you, that everything tends to sag a bit as time passes…the angle of my roof reflects character, eccentric charm.”
“Ma’am, all due respect—if your roof falls on you, angle of death will cancel charm and character.”
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.