by Brooks Sterritt
During divorce proceedings he smiled too much, displaying what his wife had called one of his best features. She smirked, confident in the knowledge that she would find love again first, perhaps already had. They sped out of the parking lot in separate cars and were caught at the nearest red light. Their daughter was sick of them, had decided to leave town and never visit again, but she hid her feelings well. After all, one good decision leads to another. Though sometimes, of course, it doesn't.
Brooks Sterritt lives in Boston and blogs here. His work appears or is forthcoming in Conjunctions, Barrelhouse, Gigantic, Night Train, and Wigleaf.