Many thanks to Rochelle as always for hosting the Friday Fictioneers.
Don Quixote and the Goddess
He wonders why icicles drape from me.
He stopped, eyes widening, mouth hanging open. Drool? Maybe. Him, a fifty-year-old, gaping at the blonde, golden-tanned goddess who rolled her eyes, averted her face, and stabbed her cell.
I danced at the wedding reception while his gaze searched for the goddess.
“What’s with you,” he asks as I shrug into my dowdiest nightie.
“But she was so beautiful,” he says. “I’ve never seen anyone like her in real life.”
Honest words to wound my heart. I glare at him.
His shoulders slump.
I almost feel sorry for him. Aging sucks.