Many thanks as always to Rochelle for giving us Friday Fictioneers.
White linens, slightly creased. A stray gray-brown hair. The pillow echoes an indentation. The white sheet, a white woven cotton blanket envelope back.
Months ago, Jess rested his copy of “Heart of Darkness” on the speaker, forgotten, just after Lenny’s band performed, playing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” just for him.
We watch snow geese arrow south, their calls beating against the winter air, grayness seeping around us, the cold bone-chilling wet, we hug out coats tighter, watching the white v against slate.
He coughs. Waves us away, again and again.
White linen slightly creased, cold.