By MD Marcus
At surface level, the water is smooth enough to reapply lipstick. Up here, all reflection is lost in dusk. Never good at estimating measurements, whether it’s fifty feet or a mile, she has no idea. But she knows she’s high enough. No longer the tepid refresher of summers past, the water will be frigid this time of year.
Her brother thinks of the river, shivers, then presses her doorbell. The chime echoes back from the empty hall within.
MD Marcus’ work has appeared on Salon as well as in Rat’s Ass Review, Communicators League, and Subterranean Blue Poetry among others.