Small Stories

The outdoor motion lights come on just as the crash reaches my ears. I’m out of bed, quick as can be, peering through the blinds. I’m hoping it’s just a cat, a raccoon. But instead, I have to sigh. Here you are again, home too late. Drunk. Stumbling over everything in your path.

I avert my eyes from the neighbors as I open the door for you. It’s in the dead of night, like this, when you come home, that I wish I had chosen differently. That I wish that I could escape, vanish. But you know I won’t. And I know it too.

Instead, I hold the door open and wait for you to come inside.

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