He thought he heard Marion in the house, her rusty rattle-breath.
He checked her recliner (re-plumping cushions), the tidy side of their bed (still indented), the bathroom floor (heaven forbid).
Finally he rang through to Ward 6, pressed her discordant song to his ear. Danced it from room to room.
Linda Irish wrote this story.
Sleeping, he breathes through his nose.
Snuggled up close, I kiss his head three times, making a soft sound with each. I don’t hear the beeping until I get up.
“Now. Okay,” I tell the nurse, even though it’s anything but.
I leave the room to make the final arrangements.
Gary Zenker loves writing flash fiction and short stories, but finds that the hardest thing to write is a good, brief biography.