She stood behind me in the grocery store. Some guy in front of me had a problem and the cashier had to turn on the blinking light, bringing the line to a halt.
“You smell good.” At first I didn’t think she was talking to me. No woman has given me a compliment like that since college.
“Thanks,” I stuttered.
“Let me guess…Marlowe Number 102?”
I had no idea what she meant so I just shrugged.
The cashier gave me a she’s-way-too-young-for-you look.
When I returned home, my wife, still in the sweat pants and t-shirt she wore to bed last night, inventoried the bags.
“Not these, George, damn it.” She slammed the cookies on the counter. “Pecan, not hazelnut.” I didn’t hear the rest, something about it was a simple task and I couldn’t get it right.
I headed back out the door.
“Where are you going?” she inquired while dumping her cigarette butt in a coffee cup by the sink.
“I forgot soap.” The last words I ever said to her.
E lives in Ohio and is a busy professional by day and a writer of microfiction by night. E has been writing for over thirty years, mainly screenwriting, until the passion for flash fiction became so overwhelming in 2019. E's first book of collected Flash Fiction will be published in 2020.