She knocked on my door. I saw her distorted image through the fisheyed peephole. The door opened.
“He’s dead,” she said, her foot tapping.
I nod. “How?”
She sighed and walked in. I watched as her eyes scanned my living room for an ashtray. She was clutching her purse, her cigarette pinched tightly in her other hand. The smoke assaulted my nose.
She didn’t answer, and I searched my cupboards for a saucer. Getting her to sit down, I asked again, “How did he die?” She squashed the orange butt into my china, and, clinging to her purse like it was a teddy bear, glanced out the window.
“Have you ever wanted to be free?” she asked.
“Free to do what?”
“No,” she said, “You don’t understand. I mean, free, just free.”
I laughed, “There is no, ‘just free.’ Everything has a price, and you’re only free if you’re free to pay it.”
And if you enjoyed that story, it and fourteen others can be found in my book:
Tale Told 
Short but meaningful!
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