A story for Sunday | River Rock
Later, in bed, we lay together. You suggested sleeping on the couch, said it would be better to start getting used to the way things are. Are. Suddenly I am in the present. In this present tense, I am begging you not yet, not yet and you are relenting. I have a thought while brushing my teeth, maybe on other things he will relent. It is a harmful thought; I squash it as soon as it blooms. I must. We are in the present tense, separately. Our realities have diverged like Frost's old poem. How does it go? I ask in the dark. The present is always moving forward, hopping along from river rock to river rock until it slips and it has crashed into the shallow, cold water.
A Story for Sunday is my weekly commitment to writing fiction, whatever length, for better or worse.
Filed under Fiction