A ration of time, just
a fraction. But
fractured.
Hard to schedule, hard
to please. Dreaded.
Can be dreadful when
not in a zoned-out,
zen-like space. In
laws and in lives some
things are not meant
to be. Human
frailty.
Dis-ease, these
disjointed
hours. He’s cracking
his knuckles. She’s
cutting off her nose.
In spite.
Written for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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