Twitterfiction 1
Sunday, December 20th, 2009She was careful as she picked across the rubble to where he lay gasping, spurting his life. “If you thought me delicate then, I was. Not fragile, no, that was what you made me.” She touched him sweetly, leaving the scent of rose and resentment behind her.
Love wasn’t something we planned for, you must understand this. It swept in uninvited, a great wind that destroyed our taste for the past.
He’d fretted long: hand-wringing, brow-wiping. In the end it blurted out. She froze, spoon of applesauce halfway to her mouth. She’d never been so beautiful; he’d never felt so ill.