Vicky instinctively glanced at the clerk as she signed the slip. Entirely predictably, a glimmer of amusement flashed across his face as she did.
“Go on, then.”
“Huh?”, replied the clerk.
“I said ‘Go on, then’. Get it over with.”
It was moments like this that she, for a split-second, regretted marrying James. Or at least, not keeping her own surname. “Vicky Goldsmith” was a perfectly good name. Why did she have to take James’ name without at least putting up a fight? Four months later, it was wearing more than a little thin.
James thought he had it bad, but getting called “Jammy” wasn’t that bad, really. In truth, Vicky thought he was secretly fond of it.
The clerk stammered nervously.
“You know what? I don’t even bloody like cake.”
And with that, Vicky turned and left, leaving the slip on the counter. The clerk looked down, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to make it obvious. What did she expect, though? He looked at the slip, still facing the customer side of the counter, and chuckled to himself.
“ǝƃuodS ɐıɹoʇɔıᴧ sɹW”.
