A Saturday Fiction in 58

Latent prints
The glass tabletop is web of fingerprints.
The same goes for the red wine stemware. The flatware. The after-dinner coffee cups. Prints everywhere.
She’s gone to the ladies room, and he scans the evidence with an earnest eye.
They’ve been there, in public, their liaison now open.
He watches as she walks back to their table, wholly satisfied.

2 comments:

Uncle E said...

How noir...
How you 'writing types' can say so much with so little is amazing. Great job.

Large Marge said...

Right on, T Daddy!