by Toby Tucker Hecht
The shower door stood ajar with fat drops of water inching their way downward along the glass and coalescing in a sad pool on the tile floor. The last hint of his footprints stretched from that spot, out of the room, down the hallway, fading with the distance like a wisp of breath on a frigid day. The interior of the shower was still misty, but the warmth was cooling fast and she wasn’t sure whether the lingering aroma of the musky, masculine shampoo was real or only a remnant of memory now. It was thirty-two minutes since he said goodbye, leaving half the bedroom closet empty. Only the puddle on the floor remained to mark a life together gone bad. That would take a bit longer to evaporate.
Toby Tucker Hecht, who last May gave us an Aphrodisiac, lives and writes in Bethesda, Maryland. Her publication credits include stories in THEMA, The MacGuffin, Spindrift, RE:AL, The Powhatan Review, Red Wheelbarrow, and The Baltimore Review. When not writing, Toby can be found at the National Cancer Institute, where she works in the Division of Cancer Treatment and Diagnosis.