Ficlets

Never before had Paul seen a lady laugh that way. She had a jolly shake and her skin rolled and jiggled with each staccato burst.
“I can’t believe he would even think to say such a thing,” she laughed.
Paul smiled. “Of course he would say such a thing,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s a pirate. Pirates talk like that.”
“But he’s not really a pirate,” the great lady said, finally containing her giggles. “He thinks he’s a pirate, sure; but he’s not really a pirate.”
Paul exhaled and looked longingly at his lemonade. A long rivulet of condensation rolled off the glass and pooled in the ring around the base.
Pink.
Delicious.
He should just reach for it. Take a drink, bash the lady in the head with the empty glass. That’s what he should do.
Instead, he spoke. “He’s really a pirate. He lives in a ship. He has a talking parrot. His left leg is made of wood.”
The lady furrowed her brow, and stared directly into Paul’s face, speaking in a slow, deliberate way:
“But he doesn’t have an eye patch, does he?”