Presumptuous

I met him after two decades, seated behind the counter at the  Mom-and-Pop store,  getting things packed for the delivery boys.

I recall his arrogance as the concurrent auditor (he was related to the promoters) in the bank branch where I worked and the life-changing moment when he exclaimed, both condescendingly and lecherously, “She’s not my type,” upon seeing a client with orange hair, a burgundy revealing dress, and sky-high heels to match her hair.

She complained about inappropriate remarks, leading to many other skeletons tumbling out of his always-locked cupboard.

He was asked to resign, and he launched this small business venture. I see his wife with greying locks supervising the store operations efficiently and enthusiastically and whisper to him, “She is the only type to  have  survived and  succeeded despite you  – truly yours.”

His smile is frozen, and do I see regret dripping from the corners of his mouth?

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Six Sentence Stories