Fresh Linens

Gingerly, Dorothy eased herself out of the queen sized bed, not bothering to straighten up the worn blankets. Her destination: the kitchen, in search of coffee.

Sitting, alone, at the small, cluttered table, she absentmindedly traced her index finger around the rim of a chipped, thick mug. Waiting for the coffee to brew, she sat in deep thought.

What was she doing? Alone, in Johnnie’s fourth floor walk-up. Sitting in a dank kitchen. Staring at yellow, cigarette-stained wallpaper that was peeling away. Hungover from a night of intense drinking. How had she ended up at Johnnie’s place, anyway?

Shaking her head, trying to push the question away, Dorothy sighed deeply. A single tear rolled down her make-up stained cheek.

She had a home. A warm, clean bed with fresh linens. A family, tucked into their respective bedrooms, sleeping away. Why hadn’t she been there with them last night?

Disgusted, Dorothy stood up, gathered her belongings and promptly left Johnnie’s house with not as much as a note left behind.

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