She caught a glimpse of him walking across her lawn and sighed. He was an incredible kisser, but his face was hidden under a thick layer of stubble. “Too bad I already exfoliated,” she thought.
When I turned 34, I decided to write a series of short stories. The only catch? Each story had to be 34 words. 34 years, 34 words. No more, no less. These are the fruits.