By Anarita Botelho
“My style?”
“Your style?”
“Who said tile?”
Three men were talking. They had known each other forever. Two of them understood each other well. The third one never did. Misundi was always behind them. Walked behind. Last to eat. Last to talk. Misundi loved the roof, the red tiles. Everyday he would get up on the roof and count those beautiful red tiles: 459! When it didn’t rain, he would shine them daily.
Everyday the other two made fun of him.
Misundi laughed on the day the other two were found dead. Pieces of red tiles spread neatly around their beds.
That last line image gives me shivers! Old Misundi definitely gets the last laugh.
Hello Bobby, thank you.
Very interesting tale. Never take the underdog for granted! I enjoyed it thoroughly. 😀
Right Carinna, thank you for your comment 🙂