“I am not cold!”
“Your lips are blue,” the mother deadpanned.
“They’re not!” the child insisted, her exclaim dampened by chattering teeth.
“I see,” the woman breathed and swallowed a retort. The girl was altogether too much like herself and would only dig in deeper if confronted.
One set of eyes stared at the other.
The shuddering intensified.
“There’s a nice warm bath and dinner waiting inside,” the mom dangled.
“And how long do you intend to be … um … ‘not cold’?”
The little girl narrowed her eyes.
“Very well. Shall I bring you a chair, then?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: © Dale Rogerson