October Flash Fiction #1 - After Dinner

“This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear:  she got up in great disgust, and walked off:  the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:  the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.” Alice in Wonderland, Chapter 7

“Is she gone?” Harry whispered.

Dorothy peeped out from under the tablecloth.  “Yes, I think so.”

“What a relief!” exclaimed Hattie.  “Company is so exhausting.”

Harry, who was already gathering the dishes onto a tray, snorted.  “It’s not like you ever do any of the work.”

“I entertain,” Hattie said, fanning herself with a napkin.  “It’s not that easy to think of interesting things to say, you know.”  She turned a baleful eye on Dorothy, “And you were no help at all, dozing off like that.”

“The girl was so dreadfully dull,” Dorothy protested.  “I mean, how much is there to say about cats, really?  And hers doesn’t even fade in and out.”  She crawled out from under the table and collected the dirty napkins into a bundle.

“I’ll wash, you dry,” Harry offered.  The two of them ambled into the house, where Harry donned a ruffled purple apron and ran his hands despairingly through his already ruffled hair as he considered the mess.  “I think Hattie used every bowl we have to make those cakes.”

Dorothy sighed, but then brightened up a bit.  “She did break one, so there is one we don’t have to wash.”

“Did she sweep up the bits?”

“Of course not,” Dorothy said.  “But I will.”  She opened the tall cupboard in the corner and extricated a broom and dustpan from the pile that tumbled cacophonously to the floor.

“I’m not sure you’re helping,” Harry said.

Dorothy ignored him.  She sorted the mops and dusters, the long-handled fishing net (why was that there?), and the carpet sweeper into something more resembling order.  Then she swooshed the broken bits of blue ceramic into the dustpan and avalanched them into the bin.

Harry, up to his elbows in suds, pointed with his chin toward the rapidly filling dish rack.  Dorothy paused to open the window above the sink before picking up a towel.

Hattie’s voice wafted in through the window, chanting the multiplication table.  Harry remarked, “She only does that when she’s feeling particularly anxious.”

“Well, at least she’s not reciting the digits of pi,” Dorothy answered.  “I’ll get her tucked up with a book of poems when we’re done with the dishes and you can take care of the tablecloth.”

“All right,” Harry agreed.  “I hope we don’t have company again tomorrow.”