It’s gonna be a thunder-plump. He said it just to say something to her. Anything. Abigail ignored him while she lounged across the bench of his Chevy. Her tears were dry now. It seemed to him, at least that the worst was over. She played her fingers over the mirror puddle, dreaming of a way they might go back to the beginning. It began to rain all-at-once and heavy as ever.
Inktober Twenty-Seventh. “Thunder.”
Published
El Golpe Avisa 