Her footsteps in the hallway. Her key in the lock. Her look of exhaustion, erased by surprise. Then shock. Then anger. Her eyes find his and wipe the expectant smile from his paint-speckled face.
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.