Jury service and sympathetic hair.

Fuck. It’s happened.

She nearly swore aloud as she opened the envelope and saw the imperious words in a big, disarmingly neutral font (and in a strange shade of pink).

Jury Service

The carriage shudders, like it’s laughing. Opening her post on the Tube has become a habit, and she feels it must have somehow tempted fate.


She skims the letter cursorily, but finds no mention of a crime. Maybe they tell you when you arrive at… Oh, they do, right there.

She exhales, blows the same strand of hair from her face that always flops down in sympathy in moments like this.


Time off work. A room full of fuckers. Public sector tea and a plate of stale biscuits. Bored deliberation.

Hopefully it’ll be open and shut. A nice, simple burglary.

But what if it’s fraud?

She sighs again. It’s bound to be. It’ll be financially complex and a billion degrees of obscurity.

The hair strand flops down again and she leaves it there.


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