Another February Monday.
Streets are grey with slush and water seeping through my shoes. On the the subway I am sandwiched between an elderly lady with a flu so bad I imagine that her lungs will end up on the floor and a man shouting in his Iphone.
I’m nauseous from the scent of wet wool and check my calendar: meetings back to back with only 20 minutes left to grab my lunch.
The weekend has withered and my only focus is survival when suddenly my mobile vibrates.
“Can we meet tonight?”
I smile, a February Monday can also bloom.
The metaphor of the rose and a withered weekend came to me easily. For once I’m writing romance, which is a bit out my comfort zone. February I know well on the other hand.
Rochelle keep us together and gives us a new picture that we can write to. Hundred words is the only rule, together we are Friday Fictioneers.
February 21, 2018