The reflection in my drying paint shocked me. I dropped my brush and twisted, raising one hand in desperation.

The looming figure waved something. A knife flashed and reflected Mellow Apricot from my wet lounge door. The intruder tripped over my foot and toppled, his other arm rising. His free hand slapped high against the door. He pulled back, tensed, and leapt. I cringed. My wallet fell as he landed.

He accelerated, bursting through the opposite door. Something crashed; feet pounded away. My armed burglar was gone.

I gazed upward at a perfect set of Mellow Apricot fingerprints, drying nicely.

[George B. Hill (2017)]