I can’t remember the last time I wrote fiction. But this one just sort of happened, like writing tends to happen — out of nowhere, without warning. So enjoy it and vote for it! Because writing is great, but winning is also great!
Are Those Hearts?
She knew she was in trouble the moment she tried on the sheer, wine-colored blouse at the store. “Hearts, for Christ’s sake! Hearts!” she murmured as she tugged at the hem, the collar, the sleeves.
Tiny, pink hearts.
She wasn’t entirely on top of things when it came to fashion. But she could see that the shirt fit perfectly. It draped over her soft shape, resting on her hips like a pair of warm hands. She stared in the mirror and stuck out her tongue at her reflection. “You are thirty-fucking-eight years old. Pull it together.”
She wore the shirt the morning after, when an entire day stretched in front of them, lazy, promising. She wore a jacket and a scarf against the cool air and drizzle, but felt the soft fabric against her skin all day as they drove through early morning fog and walked on cobblestoned, ancient streets, like tourists.
She tried to decide whether it was OK to hold his hand. She remembered how his hands used to fit hers. They were small hands for a man, but so perfect against her palm, just the right amount of space between his fingers for hers, his thumb resting on top of her hand, his elbow curving into hers as they walked. But that was ages ago.
Would they still fit like that?