“Get down here this instant!” a wild-haired woman shouted up into the distant branches of a tall tree. She folded her arms in anger, then took a sip from a fancy blue tumbler.
I was about to step into the café and start my shift, but figured I should stop to see if I could help her.
“Cat stuck in the tree?” I asked.
She turned around and shook her head. “No, it’s my broom.”
In disbelief, I came closer and looked up. Stuck and rattling against several branches was a broom, as animated as if it were a living thing.
“I—uh, how did it get up there?” I didn’t know what else to say.
The young woman shook her head. “I parked her outside, and while I was in line, someone used her to sweep away the leaves. Now she has PTSD.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Post-traumatic swept disorder. Say, you don’t have a ladder, do you?”
—WaterRaven
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