B.H.
Oct 28th, 2015 by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
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I swirl around the last dregs of my falsely sweetened coffee. Waiting for something that will cause my pupils to expand, or contract. Something to make me short of breath, to pant. I wait for something to make my palms sweat and tap my feet nervously.
Looking at the last of my coffee, I sigh, exhausted. No longer strong and dark, it has turned milky with too much creamer. I wonder how long something can stay like that.
This is what my life has been reduced to? I cannot remember anything B.H. (before him).
He always made the coffee.
From Guest Contributor Tess Pfeifle
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