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.

2 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...