by Janet Dale
As his hand hovers in the air just in front of her face, she notices the size of his fingers and the glass they are wrapped around becomes transparent. She is now that glass, obvious and suspended; her cheeks flush and he pauses. “What’s the matter?” The words linger and her eyes close imagining his fingers in her hair, her mouth, everywhere except where they are currently. A drop of condensation slides down and lands on her skin, he clears his throat bringing her back into the present. “Nothing, but this will be my last drink tonight.”
Janet Dale's current stresses include figuring out how to move all of her books and which bottle of wine to try next.