Milk Snatcher

An escaped cow meant we weren’t allowed to play outside. Looking back there were a thousand reasons I should’ve kept quiet but it was a hot day and too much energy trapped inside on such a morning had manifested itself in mischief.

The bottles were warm, glass sweated condensation. The comfortingly unpleasant smell of milk-fat hung over us. We sat, pierced our silver foiled lids. Drank deeply. And then, I raised my hand.

“She took my milk, Miss.”
“Roberts! Come here.”

Margaret got a real roasting that day and although she was innocent, she never did lose that nickname.

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