Did you know that May 1 is the deadline for *two* blogests? Charity Bradford's baking one is the first one I heard of, so that one gets to be put here above the other. Check out her blog; she's got some cool stuff to say. And hey, she's a marathon runner! Way to go!
Read the other entries and enjoy!
Then second is Lilah Pierce's last lines blogfest...a toughie! I love last lines, but how can I just give them away? I think I have a few, some rather nebulous (which is often how I like 'em), even more so because I am not going to offer much explanation.
Check out the other entrants, and again, enjoy!
She cracked the eggs open so hard, the white spattered onto her hand, and the yolk broke before it left the shell. She didn’t care. Nor did she care that a piece had broken off the shell. It wouldn’t kill him.
She stirred and scraped, turning up the heat, turning it down, turning it up again. She watched as the eggs scrambled, the white blending with the yellow. As they began to turn brown.
She swore, and pulled the pan off the burner, almost dropping it—she swore again, under her breath, so he wouldn’t hear her. Damn him. That she still cared she might wake him, when she was busy trying to serve him.
The eggs were done. She popped some bread into a toaster, and bit her thumb as she waited. It popped, and she gathered the slices, burning her hand. She slathered butter on, and the first piece split in half. The second was more sturdy, and she continued on, toasting more, buttering them.
She dumped the eggs into a bowl, put two rows of toast out on a plate, put it all on a tray. She looked at the clock. It was eight. In the morning. On a weekend.
She hated him.
She carried the tray upstairs. Had it been before, she would have picked out fresh flowers in a vase. The eggs would have been creamy and delicious.
But that had been before, and this was now. So she marched down to where he was, sleeping in the bedroom. She cleared her throat loudly. He didn’t move.
He jumped, and she stood over him, threatening, the tray firm in her hands.
“I was sleeping.” And now he was whining.
“I was, too.” The tray was heavy. Didn’t he understand?
He looked like he was about to roll over. "I didn’t tell you to get up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sit up.”
"I didn't tell you to talk."
He chuckled a little. She dumped his food down in front of him, burnt eggs, bits of breaded butter, a sad little empty cup she had forgotten to fill with orange juice.
“Happy Anniversary. Now eat your damn breakfast.”
There was a lot to say, but Sallie didn’t, and neither did he. They sat, mere inches away, and stared at the sky, and breathed together.
For just a few minutes.
That night, there was still no bread or eggs in the house, and Liz told Derek that she was breaking up with him. She didn’t give him a reason, and he didn’t ask for one. He packed up his belongings, whistling as he did so, and he moved out the next day.
Liz wondered what it was like to be in love and to have someone be in love with you.
It was Monday.
She was the other woman.