Artie blew smoke on the breeze and knocked ash from his cigarette. I drank ice tea while looking over the garden. Our outdoor table was set with refreshments.
“Cookie?” I nudged the platter.
He took three. “These are delicious.”
I watched him smoke. Cigarettes should have killed Artie years ago.
He started sweating. “My gut.” He rubbed his stomach.
“Something you ate?”
He glanced at the cookies then stared at me. “Didn’t you want one?”
“Almond cookies? Never.” I smiled.
He dropped his cigarette and fumbled for his phone, but convulsions started before he could tap 911.
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: 100-word story
photo prompt: Yarnspinner