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Weekly Contest #32
They stand on stones sunk in dead grass, green moss curling over grey rocks, softly filling in harsh cracks.“Please.” She gestures to the glass sliding door where their reflection stares back at them. He looks at himself, black hair and high cheekbones, six-foot and still in the prime of his life. Always in the prime of his life.“No, dear.” He turns to look at her, white streaks in her hair and lines of laughter around her eyes. She is past her prime, well into sixty. She will never be young again.Her eyes harden. They are the only thing fam...
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