i wait for him to come home, evening after evening, warming cold dinner, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be
he’s overworked, fatigued, his words a mumble as he chews, his eyelids drooping
i nudge gently so he doesn’t choke, wondering why we live for holidays and not for every day.
years edge away, tucking in the months, like blankets around cold old toes
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.
For more stories, visit here.
Marisa hates this hallway. When Mr. Santiago, her supervisor, first led her around, he gushed over the honeymoon couples who found the white arches romantic, how they craved the soft lighting he installed.
As she exchanges clean towels for soiled, she hears the familiar raised voice of a woman.
“Randy is gone,” she cries.
Mr. Santiago says the same words he always says: “Perhaps he found married life was not for him.”
“It’s our honeymoon, you idiot.”
As Marisa pushes the laundry hamper down the corridor, she averts her gaze and hums the languid native song of death and protection.