She wore wine-colored velvet slippers with a sheepskin trim, which looked cozy.
She was in her seventies, I’d guess, and I noticed, when I shook her hand, that her knuckles were swollen to the size of gooseberries.
“I work in accounts, Mrs. Gibbons,” I said. I told her a bit about my job, and she appeared to be fascinated,
nodding along and occasionally saying “Is that right?” and “My my, isn’t that interesting.”
When I ended my monologue, having exhausted the already limited conversational opportunities afforded by accounts receivable,
she smiled. “Are you local, Eleanor?” she asked gently.
Usually I abhor being questioned in this manner, but it was clear that her interest was genuine and without malice,
so I told her where I lived, being deliberately vague as to the precise location.
One should never disclose one’s exact place of residence to strangers.
“You don’t have the accent, though?” she said, framing it as another question.
“I spent my early childhood down south,” I said, “but I moved to Scotland when I was ten.”
“Ah,” she said, “that explains it.” She seemed happy with this.
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