Long is the Winter of Our Discontent

by Victor S. Smith

"It's cold," she said; but she wasn't talking about the temperature. She was sitting on the end of the brown leather sofa, inviting me to sit next to her, but I couldn't. I was standing up, leaning against the walls of the small one bedroom we had shared for the last year and a half. "I don't know," my response lacked confidence, "I had a long day and I am just really... tired." She knew there was something else, but wouldn't bring it up; she let me drift aimlessly into the bedroom without following. She grabbed the blanket from the floor and pulled it tightly around her shoulders; it was going to be cold tonight.


Victor S. Smith, author of 45 Minutes in a Frenetic Imagination, has the fever for the flavor of a Pringle. He sporadically updates his blog Like Pollution and makes empty promises about posts relating to such outlandish topics as: Why "Big Trouble in Little China" is the best movie ever, and his 100 favorite songs of all time. He loves using two spaces after a period.


sporadic reader said...

Really palpable tension. I love tension.

Anonymous said...


Madam Z said...

This is a perfect example of "failure to communicate." Perhaps each of you should express your feelings by writing six sentences to one another.