Bunny Slip­pers

Was Mol­lie’s footwear prac­ti­cal? No. A talk­ing point? Ab­so­lutely… and who knew where that might lead?

My Weekly - - Contents - By An­gela Pick­er­ing

Cof­fee Break Tale

Mol­lie watched his eyes as he in­spected her out­fit. One of his eye­brows shot up as his gaze ar­rived at her feet. She blinked and looked down at his feet, where he was wear­ing boots. “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?” His grin was at­trac­tive as was the se­duc­tively raised eye­brow.

“Bunny slip­pers?” he said as if it were a ques­tion. “Of course,” she said, “what else?” The ears on her bunny slip­pers were stand­ing up as if lis­ten­ing for a bunny-eat­ing fox.

“Sorry,” he said, go­ing a pretty shade of pink. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just not of­ten one sees bunny slip­pers these days.”

“Not on an adult,” she said on his be­half. The cheek of the man, she thought. “Your boots are hardly No­bel prize-win­ning ef­forts, are they?” she said. Though his eye­brow might be, her re­bel­lious brain silently added.

“I’m here about the boiler,” he said. “You need boots for that sort of work.”

“Oh yes,” Mol­lie said. She’d briefly for­got­ten about call­ing her in­surance com­pany about the boiler. “I only no­ticed it this morn­ing,” she con­tin­ued. “I didn’t ex­pect you to get here so soon.”

“‘So soon’ is my mid­dle name,” he said.

Mol­lie sti­fled a gig­gle and a witty re­sponse. “You’d best come in, then.” He paused to wres­tle his boots off. “Oh,” she said. “I thought you needed them.”

He grinned again and she watched for the eye­brow ac­tion. It didn’t dis­ap­point. “I was only jok­ing,” he said, “be­mused by your slip­pers.”

“There’s noth­ing wrong with bunny slip­pers at any age,” she in­formed him. “Pull your­self to­gether, man, and get my boiler fixed.” He saluted. “Sir, yes sir,” he said. “Well?” Mol­lie snapped. “Get on with it, then.”

“Er, I do have a slight prob­lem though,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

‘It’s not work­ing, of course,” Mol­lie said, feel­ing a bit silly.

She couldn’t nav­i­gate the stairs safely in her slip­pers so she took them off and left them wait­ing at the foot of the stairs. She glanced back at him fol­low­ing and no­ticed that he was wear­ing odd socks. She won­dered if he was notic­ing the way her bot­tom swung to and fro as she climbed. Her hip had been play­ing up of late and she hoped he didn’t no­tice that. Her cheeks warmed as she em­bar­rassed her­self with the in­ap­pro­pri­ate thought.

Once in the up­stairs bath­room, Mol­lie opened the lit­tle door that led to the roof space where the boiler resided. At least, she tried to open the door. The knob came off in her hand and she had to wedge her fin­gers on the edge of the door and pull.

“You’re not hav­ing too good a day, are you?” he com­mented.

“It’ll be bet­ter once the boiler is fixed and I can have a nice, re­lax­ing bath.” She winced as she won­dered what sort of pic­ture she had drawn in his mind. “You are reg­is­tered with that gas safety thingy I trust?” asked rather be­lat­edly. “The one with the Queen’s dogs?” “I am a qual­i­fied gas en­gi­neer.” “Of course,” she said, and re­sisted the urge to fan her burn­ing face. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Cof­fee?” he said, bend­ing down to look at the boiler. “For the worker.”

What a cheek, she thought as she filled the ma­chine with fresh wa­ter. Luck­ily she’d bought some of those cof­fee pods ad­ver­tised on tele­vi­sion. It was pos­si­ble that the man up­stairs did re­sem­ble a cer­tain good-look­ing film star. Or was that her imag­i­na­tion?

All done,” he called as he thumped his odd-socked way down the stairs. “You’d for­got­ten to ad­just the timer.”

“Oh, silly me,” she said, as he slipped his arms around her waist.

“You sure you didn’t do it on pur­pose just to get me round here?” Mol­lie spun in his arms to face him. “We’ve been see­ing each other for a while. Surely I don’t need to re­sort to trick­ery,” she whis­pered.

His kiss as­sured her that she was right. He raised his head and did that eye­brow thing she found so delicious.

“You’d best can­cel the in­surance peo­ple,” he said.

Mol­lie gig­gled. “I haven’t ac­tu­ally rung them,” she ad­mit­ted.

Some time later, she saw him to the front door. “See you tonight?” he said. “Ab­so­lutely,” she replied. She glanced down at his feet again as he pulled on his boots. “I love your socks,” she said. “Very orig­i­nal.”

“I love your slip­pers,” he said. “Very rab­bitty.”

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