At sometime during the night she had migrated to his side of the bed. She clutched what she still considered to be his pillow, although he had not slept on it, had not shared her bed, for more than a year. It was as if the sheets still held his warmth and his scent and drew her to him. But he could not come to her, not any longer, not any ever. He was taking a chance, a big one, just to watch her, if only for a moment. He couldn’t stay any longer than that. He couldn’t bear it and they would certainly know. They, the others, the ones who had forced him to run, if not to save himself, then for her.
Then what? Who is she? Who is “They”―Mafia, Gestapo, aliens? Who is he and how is he there, or is he? What’s going on here?
Don’t answer right away, give it some time. Go have a cup of tea. Take a smoke break. Let the words tickle your “little gray cells”.
There’s no wrong answer. The words will mean something different to everyone who reads this and that’s okay. I think I know where I would take this. I think I know, but until I actually get it written down, finalized, and published, nothing is certain. Nothing at all.
What do you think? Where would these words take you? What is the back story? Where do they go from here?