Writing. It’s that thing you do when you put consecutive words together to form a something. Yep, a something. Which I have not been doing lately.
Many thanks to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers which keeps on ticking even when I’m not. This week Rochelle has provided us with one of her beautiful water colors.
Time After Time
A past boyfriend called me a dreamer, meant it kindly, as if I were a poet or artist, but right now, staring at the condiments on the table, the sludge of ketchup against the lip of the bottle, a speck of dirt on the saltshaker, my glass with a shadow of lipstick, I know that a dreamer is a fool.
You stare off, outward, away from me. “If we were meant to be . . .”
I bite my lip, hard. I won’t cry. Not for you. Although. I love you.
Almost thirty years later, your snores keep me awake.