By Elaine Mead
Wrapped in the dangerous duo of boredom and curiosity, I reach for the latch. Accepting the soft click, I chew the inside of my left cheek. Cautiously, I scan the contents.
An organic strawberry lip balm—the label faded almost white. Papaya hand cream—old, congealed, leaking. A mix CD with hand-drawn hearts—scratched from repeated use. One lonely hair clip—a single strand of lack-luster brown hair. Stranded.
A photo. Creased. Your smile and hers. Wide.
I close the compartment door, as you open yours. My smile. Weak.
You reach over and squeeze my hand reassuringly.
My hand. Not hers.
I liked this because the collection of objects build towards the denoument.
I love the opening line. We know we shouldn’t, and risk unleashing Pandora’s Box, but we do it anyway.
This story is ? ?.
Sorry, I entered the fire Emoji but it didn’t show up. This story is hot like fire!