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Weekly Contest #367
Marthe closed the apartment door, nodding in an acquiescent way while diminishing the crack through which her neighbour continued to speak to her. Once that crack had turned into a solid line and the pushy chatter of Elisa had turned into a muffled sound, Marthe leaned against the closed door and breathed a big sigh of relief. This was the kind of person she had turned into, these days: a quivering, shaking sequence of small reliefs. What, she wondered, was the age you had to reach before being able to breath that final, decisive sigh of rel...
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