'I have stories
of....' I stopped and crushed the paper which I had spent two hours to write. I
tossed the paper to the bin, and was to start on another when Mum walked in. I
leaned over to cover my writings, but who ever could hide from their Mum must
be either Hannibal or Sigmund Freud. She placed the iced lemonade and slices of
passion fruits on the plate.
"So you are
stuck with the love letter, huh?" I looked up at her. She's better than
Sherlock.
"Which part
of me that had not eluded your observation?" I picked up the lemonade to
take a sip.
"Elementary,
my dear. You have filled up the bin with a roll of writing papers, that would
had came from a thick branch." She picked up the ones that did get into
the bin. I had to admit I was bad at hoops; with my height, I lose out to the
leggy models would be. Both in shape and cheers; they are infallible in both.
"And you
missed dessert, so I do the room deliver." Mum's are very considerate.
I shrieked out; it
was not her but the passion fruit was yuck; combined with lemonade it was like
having taking to take medicine. I dropped the slice of passion fruit on the
paper. It blended in well with the brownish paper backdrop.
"Do you think
it looked nice?" My Mum leaned over.
"Passionate..."
She laid a kiss on my cheek. Mum's are great.
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