She gets up and goes to the other bathroom. The one they never use. As she sits there she hears, then smells, then sees this grunge of a man sitting on the tub. Ambien fog at 4 AM? She asks him, “Do you live here?”
“Only at night,” he says.
Deanna wrote this at four in the morning near the end of December.
Dance with me, he said.
He in his socks, she in her nightgown.
In the light of early morning, they danced. Slowly. Familiar with each other’s bodies, they danced.
“You’ve Made Me So…”
Holding her coffee cup in her hand while they danced.
We watched, then joined them.
Deanna is a newbie to writing and is having a great time writing 50 word fiction.
Where was she? Did she take a wrong turn? What mountain road was this? No cell service here.
She grabbed “emergency” boots, coat, hat, and gloves from the truck, then pushed the door open and jumped.
She fell backwards into the snow like an angel and remembered her childhood sky.
Deanna is an enthusiastic reader who has no aspirations, ambitions, or talent to be a writer. She has spent years with her nose in books, taking the words from them. She likes to think that writing 50-word stories is a way of giving them back, 50 at a time.