by Wendy Pinkston Cebula
The dog next door is barking again, bored and lonely for human company while the busy couple are at work. A valiant effort, but no one is coming. It's just you and me out here, so rage all you want. Maybe I will, too. The cigarette smoke curls into my nostrils, negating the scent of honeysuckle vines creeping over the fence, alive with bees. If not for those bees, my first childish instinct would be to pick a blossom, and, pinching the end with my fingernail, remove the pistil to lick the drop of delicate nectar inside.
Wendy Pinkston Cebula is hard at work on her first novel. She lives in New York City.