An Untruth

A short excerpt . . . not a final edit.

Thin, amber strands, lightly brushed the white porcelain cup sitting before her. Her dark coffee, now lukewarm, sat idle while she stared through the wet panes of the small diner’s windows. Carelessly twisting her curled locks, she deftly tied a loose, soft ponytail. The bleached tips fell across her left shoulder. Her thoughts, swayed by the redness in her eyes, pictured a row of long, lean, white-capped mountains in the distance. Flat, sparse fields spread out before them. A strip of sunburnt asphalt narrowed into nothing. The sounds of footsteps melting into the humid air. She could imagine the hem of his faded jeans beginning to fray as he hiked down the lesser-used road. Ready to swirl up and howl at the next passing old truck, rows of gray, sand speckled dust waiting patiently outside the worn painted white lines. She might have said his name out loud for the last time at that moment. She could not have known any different.

Copyright © 1975-2020 RG Dillon. All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2019-2020 Stephanie Dillon. All Rights Reserved.

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