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The Morning After

The back of her husband's head looked like an egg. He was bald and pale and when she held up a real egg for comparison the likeness was uncanny. She didn't feel like making his breakfast. Not after last night. She frowned and tugged at the neck of her robe. The nerve of him, reading the paper with his back turned, like he was at a restaurant and not in his own kitchen. On the stove butter sizzled in her cast-iron skillet. It was good for cracking eggs.

Story by:

Melissa Milazzo

submitted at 8:35pm

17 April 2012

Melissa Milazzo's web:

melissamilazzo.wordpress.com