“Do you know how to use a weed whacker?” the owner said when I came into his office.
“Um, uh,” I sputtered out. Yes, I know how to use a weed whacker, I thought. But I was in Kauai, without health insurance, doing a work-trade that started off in the office and somehow might end up using machinery, all to stay alone in the “Honeymoon Suite” at his bed and breakfast.
I didn’t want to lie but I also didn’t want to do weed whacking or any other serious landscaping. Looking to focus on something other than his eyes, I glanced down to his hands on the desk. His left pinky and ring finger had been cut off at the second knuckle. Rapidly, my eyes darted to wall and I shuttered thinking that his question was rooted in the missing appendages.
“No, sorry, I’m not too good with those things,” I said, making eye contact again.
He confessed later on that neither was he.
Short story by L.B. Lewis for December 1, 2016. Copyrighted. All rights reserved.