Today I have written a 100-word story in solidarity with a friend who has pledged to write a 100-word piece every day of November. Best of luck, Mr. Maher!
They stand in uncomfortable silence, staring at the door.
Arlen gestures vaguely with his laptop bag and considers his words.
“That was nice,” he says thinly.
Why is she still here?
She mustn’t come into his office building. He could be tainted associating with such weakness.
Cindy senses his acute disdain.
If only she were the Marlboro Man, she could fill her timid silence with a plume of smoke and a blatant disregard for consequences. Oh, to wield a tiny white stick of power and death, burning so brightly and briefly.
Instead, she folds herself into the space around him.