Dolores and the Witch
By the time Dolores was still making her way down the stairs, Lara had already set out a cup of coffee and a tin of biscuits on the small table outside the salon.
“Coffee and ginger biscuits?” Dolores puffed as she approached. “Mia’s been overbooking Nico again, hasn’t she?”
Lara’s mouth opened for a second, then curled into a smile.
“Dolores, nothing ever gets past you, does it?”
Dolores gave a satisfied little nod.
“I just hope the coffee’s still hot and the biscuits aren’t from Christmas two years ago. Last time, I’m pretty sure you gave me something the previous owner left behind at the back of a cupboard.”
Lara’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“This year’s, I promise. Unopened. And they don’t expire for another year, so clearly they’re built to last.”
“With nails like yours, you’re not exactly baking, are you? Shop-bought it is,” Dolores said, settling into the wrought-iron chair.
She picked up a biscuit, dipped it into her coffee, and finished it in two bites, humming in approval.
Lara gently closed the salon door, then pulled her chair closer.
“Tell me something, Dolores,” she said quietly. “What’s going on with your neighbor? You know—the one you think is a witch. Have you seen anything strange since?”
Dolores stared ahead for a moment, then slowly shook her head.
“Lara… I don’t want you thinking I’ve lost my mind, but I swear, there’s something off about them,” she said under her breath. “Their house has a flat roof. The only modern monstrosity on the whole street. And I keep seeing her up there at night, writhing around. It looks like some kind of… weird ritual.”
“Every night?” Lara asked, skeptical.
“Maybe not every single night, but a few times a week, for sure.” Her voice hardened. “And my stubborn husband—there’s no point telling him anything. He won’t even go and look. Just says I’m the witch. And apparently not the harmless kind.”
Lara bit the inside of her cheek. The sharp sting made her tense. She glanced at her coffee but didn’t dare take a sip, worried it would irritate the spot.
“And what about the broom?” she pressed.
She glanced inside the salon. Nico was already blow-drying Rosita’s hair.
Dolores shifted in her seat.
“The old chairs were better. This one’s really uncomfortable,” she complained.
Lara narrowed her eyes slightly, one eyebrow lifting.
“These are the same chairs, Dolores. You’ve just forgotten what they’re like. I put new cushions on them this year. Thicker ones. Softer.”
She leaned in, resting her elbow on the table.
“So? What about the broom?”
Dolores let out a fake cough and gestured dramatically for water, gasping for air before coughing again.
Lara stood at once and stepped back into the salon.
By the time she returned with a glass of water, Dolores was already on her feet, her face flushed.
She drained the glass in one go.
“Well,” she said, catching her breath, “looks like your fiery little lady is ready.”