The rain just fell. I saw it. I felt it though my skin is dry, the ground is dry, the air is dry, as if nothing had happened at all.
She printed it out, bound and perfect by the margins, ready for submission. Not today. She opened the drawer and added to the decaying pile.
All I had to do was grab the outstretched fingers. He begged me to help. I smiled and walked slowly away. I knew she would soon forget him.
The fragrance of almonds pervaded the kitchen. The last flavor he’d taste, she thought. Smiling, she carried the cookies up to the bedroom.
He didn’t crave the money or the fix. He just wanted to look someone in the eyes; for someone to gaze back. His sign said LOST, and he was.
The neighbor girl isn’t eating again. She tapes quarters to her belt to tip the scale and satisfy her stern mother—she thinks of everything.