Strangers demolishing my cake!

Daily post: Unexpected Guests

You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.

If I walk into my own home to see a couple eating a slice of my cake, the conversation will pretty much go like this:

‘Holy crap! Who are you?’

Silence from both of them.

Then, ‘Is that my cake?’

‘Aye.’ The guy speaks, holding the cake delicately between his fingers. ‘Oh, this delightfully fluffy thing is called cake?’

And I would be staring agog at both of them, because judging from their clothes (breeches and tunics, and the woman’s thick surcoat) and from his speech; they may have come from the past…

Maybe, if I find them interesting enough, I will talk to them, find out which era they come from. But if I find out that they are a hoax, I will very gently throw them out of my front door, and send them tumbling back to their own homes, sheepish expressions fixed firmly on their faces.

That would make a pretty good story.

However, if I’m in stealth mode that day, and come home finding scratches on my door knob, and my usually kept- shut gate swinging ominously in the wind, I’ll phone the police.

Or if I happen to have stepped into a crime novel, I would be obliged, as the protagonist, to come in through a secret entryway into my house, or maybe through the windows. Before I do that though, I’ll act real cool and slip on a balaclava, some fingerless gloves, and a rope. Then, I would proceed to the roof, and slide my way down to my windows, slipping in and surprising that intrusive couple.

The cake would fall from their fingers; their eyes would stretch wide open.

Then, the woman will shriek, ‘Burglar!’

‘What? No! It’s you! You’re the burglar!’ I’d yell, voice slightly muffled by my balaclava.

I think it would be quite a cause for confusion.

‘How dare you step into my home and call me burglar!’ I’d pull of my balaclava, trembling with rage.

‘What?’ Now, it would be the couple’s turn to be surprised.

Then, I’d look around, and find out maybe like, hey, that’s not my sofa, wrong colour… And like, my television doesn’t look like this…

A proverbial bomb will drop on my head, because I’d realize that I had stepped into the wrong home!

Quick as a fox, I’d slip back out of the window and haul myself back to the roof, making an unobtrusive escape from the couple, and from my embarrassment.

Perhaps, that sort of thing doesn’t occur to main characters in those stories…

My ceaseless mumblings have an origin: Daily prompt: Unexpected Guests

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