Some days my head calls the shots. Sometimes it's my heart. But I'm working towards some sort of a compromise and I think the lines of communication are open.
On the fourth day of flashing, here is what I wrote.
The zipper broke and she swore as she tried to stuff her sweater back inside the tattered suitcase. She sank down on the curb.
“You staying or going?” the bus driver asked, holding the door open.
She brushed the tears from her cheeks and nodded.
It was time to go.