Intrusion
She shuffles into the kitchen,
blinking with the morning light. The
best time of day is between five and seven.
The only two hours when no one looks at or talks to her. When she can sit by the window in her
tattered bathrobe and ancient slippers, secure in her solitude with her own pot
of coffee and cigarettes. She picks up
her collection of Dorothy Parker, the first sip of Folgers savoring in her
mouth, and flicks the lighter. A
floorboard creaks. She starts, willing
disbelief. But he’s there in the doorway,
blinking stupidly.
“Good morning.”
It had been.
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