by Thom Gabrukiewicz
Hair cascades down fingers that cover her sleeping face; crumpled covers bunch at her hips, where she's kicked them free. He watches. The soft rise and fall of her ribs; the freckles, the birthmark he liked to kiss. They'd argued. He reaches out to touch her but she rolls, mews a whisper. His hand hovers; in that instant, he pulls back.
Thom Gabrukiewicz, author of Cornered, is a working journalist on the Left Coast who wishes someone would notice his other musings and offer him a big, fat book advance. He blogs here.