By Estelle Laurence
The cat bats the wrapping paper that litters the lounge room, enraged by the rustling. Detritus covers the table, half-finished bottles, crackers torn apart, the aftermath of war.
I examine the box of lingerie, black dentelle shows through the plastic, a peace offering I’ll never wear.
On Christmas Day the streets are quiet. My feet find their rhythm, the heat of the pavement burns through the soles of my runners. I imagine that I’m far from here.
Dog droppings stick to the pavement like plasticine, someone’s new dog, a Christmas gift.
A New Year beckons still nothing has changed between us.
That was very though provoking Estelle and I like the subtle allusion to cat people and dog people and how, perhaps, they don’t mix well. Thanks for your story.
Heartbreaking! Love: the aftermath of war, Christmas Day/heat of the pavement, New year/no change. So intriguing. So much here in 101 words.
I liked this too. But the closing line should be two sentences. There is missing punctuation.