“My husband is missing, you must help me!” I pleaded in broken French.
The lieutenant behind the desk rolled his eyes, “Has it been 48 hours?”
He pointed at his watch, “48 hours.”
“Unbelievable.” I muttered and stormed out of the station.
Jumping back into the waiting cab, I said, “Back to the hotel.”
The cabbie nodded, skillfully weaving through the French alleyways. After several turns, it’d occurred to me he didn’t take the original route. “Stop!” I grabbed the door handle, almost flying out of the cab. There he was, dead as a door-nail, steps from his rental scooter.
Each week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple hosts Friday Fictioneers where we’re challenged to write a piece of flash fiction in 100 words, more or less, based on the picture above.