From the Prompt: The Beautiful Voice

THE PREMISEREAD HERE  Thanks WritersDigest and Brian A. Klems for the weekly inspiration.

My Take on the Prompt:


If those digits were people, she’d have poked out several eyes with the fury of her index finger.

“Seriously, you don’t have to press that hard,” her sister said, peering over her shoulder.

“It’s the principle, Bianca. I didn’t create this bill. Besides, why would I order two cases of Moroccan oil from an infomercial?”

Soft rock from an era long before all night television and identity theft floated across the line as Connie’s blood pressure rose. “As soon as they answer this phone, I’m going to—“

“Manes Incorporated.” A deep voice cut through her rant.

For the second time in a week she stated her complaint; however, there was something about this guy’s voice that was soothing, disarming, as he put her on hold and returned minutes later with a series of questions: Are you Constance Williams? Do you live at 105 Oak Street? Did you purchase Moroccan Miracle oil on June 7, 2016?

“No. I did NOT purchase oil. The name is Connie Wesley, not Constance. And I live at 104 Oak, not 105.”

“Sounds like a simple mix-up.” He placed her on hold again and returned with that voice that could lure everyone to jump off a ship without life-jackets. There was nowhere to direct her anger with a voice like that.

“Good news,” he said, as she imagined him smiling at her with a row of perfectly straight teeth. “We’ve credited a hundred dollars back to your account; you should see it on your bank statement in a day or two. We’re also throwing in two tickets to Sushi Town.”

“Wait. What?”

“Get your stir-fry on,” he said with a chuckle.

The credit to her account was a relief, although she’d already checked with her bank and, thankfully, no suspicious activity had been reported, other than with Mane’s Incorporated. Nevertheless, she had to run with this chance. Steadying herself , not believing her own ears, she asked, “Do you live in the area? Would you like to get your stir-fry on with me?”


They devised a plan: Bianca would lag a safe distance behind, choosing a table in the far back of Sushi Town, just in case Baritone Guy was crazy. Baritone Guy would meet Connie in the lobby. She’d be the red-head in the yellow dress.

He was everything she anticipated—dark, handsome, employed. Except for one thing: she should have worn ballerina flats instead of wedge sandals.