By Tim Dadswell
I pass the familiar ‘For Sale’ sign outside our house.
I find Celia reading in bed. Her manicured nails, cream-cleansed complexion and slender body are now meant for another.
Her head turns. She scans me top to toe, spotting a hole in my sock. One corner of her mouth curls upward.
My well-rehearsed sentences shrivel into sun-dried stalks. There will be no showdown tonight.
In the spare room, it’s like I’m in a basket under a hot air balloon. My atomized words swirl overhead, out of reach.
Where are the ropes to return me to the ground?
Tim Dadswell writes “to connect with like-minded readers.”