by J.E. Tirey

Jeannette had grown tired of caring. Her apathy was a callous formed from 48 years of family friction and non sequiturs from her husband’s fists. So, yesterday, when the doctor closed the door apologetically and took his seat in front of Jeannette, she didn’t avert his pained gaze. She leaned forward and waited, her hands clasped but opened slightly. He said he was sorry there was nothing more they could do for her and handed her a tissue when the first sob broke free. The tears that caressed her cheeks and kissed her lips felt - tasted - like relief.


J.E. Tirey is a sometimes poet and fiction writer living and working in Indianapolis.