Coda

by Colleen Addison

In choir the woman I am crushing on fidgets: can she not wait her turn? During my song she stands up, shrugging from stiffness; is it just me or are her shoulders beautiful? I avoid straining my eyes to spot a smile, any smile, and her sober-seeming mouth is suddenly too wide, a mustache unwaxed on her upper lip. I am ashamed, for my voice is rising but all I can think of is this fall. Was this love that I should lose it so quickly? The woman shifts her feet, and my temples crumple.

6S

Colleen Addison completed a Master's degree in Creative Writing, followed by a PhD in health information; she then promptly got sick herself. She now lives, writes, and heals on a small island off the coast of Vancouver, Canada. Her recent work has featured in Halfway Down the Stairs, River Teeth, and Little Free Lit Mag. She has been nominated for a Best of the Net award and is writing a romance novel and a poetry chapbook, rather stupidly at the same time.