Emma

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Tom hated her.

Every day she was there with her brightness, joy, light, dancing in the parking lot just outside his apartment. Emma had been his brightness, his joy, his light. His Emma. Now Emma was gone and she was a daily, painful reminder. So he hated her.

What right did she have to invade his tiny, dark life? Why must she, every day, kindle his pain with her warmth? It was cruel.

He watched her dance through the dirt smeared window. He found his gaze drawn to her. She moved gracefully, purposefully for hours. Even the flowers turned to watch.

He squinted against her intensity, pushing the welling tears down his cheek. And still she danced, moving lightly across the lot, reflected in the chrome and glass of the cars.

When he could stand to look at her no longer, he would close the blinds and retreat to the darkness, and think about his Emma.

 


This is from a writing prompt for a writer’s group. I was supposed to write a piece on observing the sun like a ballerina without actually mentioning the sun.

 

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2 Comments on “Emma”

  1. I like it! And it seems like you’re talking about another woman until the very end…

    Liked by 1 person


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