A Saturday Fiction in 58

I've the time for a Fiction in 58.

Fickle

She picked at hearts like testing fruit, looking for bruises, thumping them for ripeness. It was a cruel diversion and she knew it, believing it was her right to harvest the best, suck the sweetness, select another. She was finicky and fickle.
He brushed past, a little close, smiled.
She licked her lips, sighed. Low fruit tasted best.

Comments

Donna said…
Okay, but I've dated some men who took her class and successfully implemented everything they learned! :)
Dee Martin said…
oh that last line is pure honey gold...

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