'Leigh.' An annoying voice; distinctly female, 'any plans for holiday?'

Hands dangling,
legs already off the soft precipice.

Hair trails the carpet,
jet black against cream.

'A job?' Maybe.
She sinks into the sofa.

Whiplash—melodious astonishment,

implodes.

'I can't?' Chocolate eyes twirls.

'No no, I mean go ahead!'
A hasty inhale.

'By all means, go!' Her sister's voice shakes.
Shocked.

Leigh's dainty nose wrinkles, peeved.
She draws the line:
'Ms Mary suggested it.'

'Any in mind?'

She shrugs, shirt scrunching;

She sees swathes of blue and purple,
pink, yellow;

It was a floral scent.

'A flower shop? Maybe.'

Or not,
flower pots are hazardous—at least for her.