“What a load of wank.” Looking over my shoulder, his blinding shirt, half orange, half black. He slaps me on the back, “Whats for dinner?”

“Well I thought I’d do…” I begin, but he’s gone. I simmer with indignation.

Looking again at the screen, I wonder what it means… The poet’s voice held no clue. What to do? I twist my hair. How to get from here to there?

Published on postcardshorts.com – stories that fit on a postcard!

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