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Weekly Contest #371
You approach the man leaning outside the door of the women’s restroom because he seems like your best friend’s type. This is the only stop for ages down I-29, and it’d be a thirty minute drive to the closest department store. His red hair is tire-tracked back, his body scrawny like a newborn doe, his floral shirt reeking of the dumpster. Violet would’ve loved the gauntness of his cheeks, the perpetual grimace, the way he looked away when you made eye contact. She liked skinny men with some bite to them. “It’s late for a lady like you,” he sa...
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