Crumb

Writing prompt for today, October 6: Write a scene where the crumb on the table has particular significance.

Mercedes wrung her hands.  She didn’t know why she was here. And they made her sit in this chair. Without sanitizing it first.

“Mrs. Young, did you hear me?”

Mercedes looked up at the police officer sitting across the table. His face was nice enough, but his nose was crooked.  Undoubtedly broken sometime in the past. She hadn’t heard him.  She shook her head.

“Where were you last night at 9:45?”  He wiped his nose with his hand and Mercedes almost threw up.  Those hands had touched her arm. She shuddered.

“Mrs. Young!” The cop was getting angry, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate on his words.

She shook her head, trying to clear the image of millions of germs crawling up her arm. “I…I was at home, reading a book.”

“Was there anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Do you know where your husband was?”

Mercedes looked down at the table.  She didn’t know where her husband had been. She was about to say this when she noticed a crumb on the table. It was on the officer’s side and it was white and powdery.

It could be powdered sugar. Cops eat donuts, right? It must be powdered sugar. But her mind wouldn’t let it go. What if it was anthrax? What if it was anthrax and the police officer breathed one of his angry germ-filled breaths and it flew over the table and she breathed it in? She would die.

She would die.

Mercedes’ breath came faster, she couldn’t seem to slow down her heart.

Suddenly the angry, germy cop was behind her, yanking her up.  She pushed him away, not wanting his germs to crawl up her arm again. She struggled and kicked and writhed, but it was no use. He ended up sitting on her handcuffing her hands behind her back.

As he hauled her out of the room, saying something about remaining silent, she could barely walk, barely think, for trying to get all the germs off.