The counter space reflects her busy life even as we emerge from this devastating pandemic. The two purses are used for specific purposes which I have never understood. I cringe when she ask me to bring her purse. I invariably choose the wrong one.
The two medical cards with our medications are placed where emergency personnel can find them. I have asked myself a few times if the paramedics will even take the time to look, much less read, them.
There’s the business card from the landscape company she is trying to reach because there are brown patches in the yard. I hate to tell her that the brown spots were probably the result of her using way too much Roundup. But I stay quiet.
The colorful luggage tags are for our upcoming trip to Alaska. No international travel for us this year. She has purchased two new sets of luggage to go along with the six suitcases in the garage. I only need one.
There is a picture of me with my beret sitting in the airport in Dublin. It’s her favorite photo of me. I don’t argue with her.
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We are challenged to write a complete story (beginning, middle, and end) in 100 words or less. My story follows the picture below. Other stories may be found by clicking here.
The sweet smell of her perfume still lingers in the room. It was her room. The room she escaped the hectic life she lived. It was not a crowed room. It was clean and sunny. Here she would keep a few of her most precious possessions. The sea shells collected from their favorite beach. A small art project she had started after a recent trip to Japan.
He still remembers the first time he saw her. An introduction at the place they worked. A feeling that she was the one. The first and only time he felt that emotion.
I work in the Bulyanluhu Gold Mine here in Zanzibar. I should be more specific. I work UNDERGROUND in this dark and damp place. Most of my day is spent dreaming about the world 500 feet above me. This time of year I never see the sun.
Beautiful Lake Victoria is but a few miles away. I dream of it also. I dream of many things. Sports, my favorite rum drink, and of course girls.
Every night, and it is dark when I finish work, I stop by “Paje” my favorite bar. There my fantasies begin. Hajira is her name. She knows me, but not by name. She calls me the “dark one.”
Tonight I bring her a present. It is know by our town people as “the lipstick” fruit. She takes the fruit as she dances in front of me. She turns and struts away and throws the fruit to another customer. Such is my life.