I don’t like people coming in my kitchen. It’s my workspace. I’m looking at the latest invader, a customer holding his restaurant check in my face, his cheeks red, spittle flying, demanding to know why the charge for his entree was higher than it was when he ate here last month. I want to ask him what he would do if one of his clients barged into his office unannounced at his workplace, screaming, demanding answers. Instead, I pick up a handful of shrimp I was about to toss in my saute pan and fling it at his head, telling him I hope that makes up the difference. He retreats, and my space is my own once again.
The prompt for the six sentence story challenge was charge.