So, I actually wrote this two or three days ago–who remembers?! 😉 (I’m still sick; it feels like I’ve had it forever. Told someone I’d been sick for 2 weeks when it had only been 1. That’s what it feels like!) Anyway, I’m still not satisfied with this one. Maybe I shouldn’t say that in the prelude.
Anywho. Thank you, Rochelle, as always for providing such a stimulating prompt and Friday Fictioneers.
Mae frowns at the jars in Danny’s fridge: olives and peach jelly. Strange, she thinks, as she carefully drags a sponge over the shelves.
Packing his belongings is less careful.
Sold or trashed were his canvases. Oil paints long separated. When Deirdre abandoned him, he’d checked out, inch-by-inch.
The baby toys? Those stymie Mae.
Obviously, he doesn’t tell Mae everything.
Afraid to hurt her, lead her on.
With one last glance at the wounded ceiling plaster, Mae’s endlessly thankful the nail loosened.
Hope hugs her as she wants to hug Danny.
Maybe now he’ll hug her back.