He whispers, Stay.
I give a languid smile and leave my cigarette to burn on the nightstand next to his grandmother’s old lamp. I adjust my wig and slip on my red heels. The door closes behind me, as smoke curls around the bed.
I won’t be seeing him again.
Karin Osterberg grew up on the prairie where she transformed dreary winter landscapes into faraway lands. Now living in Oregon, with BAs in Biology and Chemistry, she analyzes chromosomes by day and creates worlds of fiction by night.