The Game of Prose


Adia’s hands were covered in bubbles. She swished her hands in the soapy water, reaching for a spoon somewhere at the bottom of the warm suds. She gazed and squinted as she observed the hazy summer afternoon out the window in front of her. The wind had gone elsewhere, and left the world outside in a hot, motionless state. The window frame’s view reminded her of the painting hanging in the bathroom–a thorny rose bush in a desert. “Ouch!” She yelled, as a knife at the bottom of the sink stabbed her palm. Ejecting her hand from the water she thumbed the area to check for blood. There was none. A knock on the door was the next interruption, causing a toothy smile to flash across her face. Wiping her hands in a towel she rushed over expectantly, heart pounding, and she could feel warmth rising to her cheeks as she grinned. She twisted the doorknob, and swung open the door, arms prepared to embrace. But the person she saw was not whom she expected. Her face flushed, her crescent smile became a hard line, and her hands suddenly turned ice cold. “…Who are you?”


Suggested by: P. Babs


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