His tools still hung on the wall and, on the shelf below, the bottle tilted, gathering dust. The last bottle. He’d never drink again now.
She went downstairs sometimes, to look. To look at his tools. To look at the bottle. To wonder what her life would be now, if he were still alive, if he hadn’t had that affair. With the bottle.
Posted for the writing meme,
Every Wednesday, there comes,
from Willow Manor, a picture,
inviting submissions of poetry or prose
based upon that picture, in whatever way
participants see it.
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