“Soap, John. We need more soap!” The walls are thin and I hear his wife’s shout like it is meant for me. In a way, it is.
It means John’s leaving.
I hear the screen door slam and count to ten before I pull on my boots. The snow crunches as I walk around the corner.
John is leaning against his truck, a small smug smile across his face.
“It took you long enough, Charles.”
I growl and grab the loops of his jeans, pull him in close. “I’ve been waiting all goddam day.”
“Where can we go?” John asks, nuzzling my neck.
“She’ll never find us at the opera.”
Written for Micro Bookends where the prompt chooses your first and last word, you write the rest!