The Shortest Story Ever Told
At the door he paused, his single bag in hand, and turned to look back at her once more. She was
sitting on the edge of the bed. Her legs were crossed at the knees, upon which rested one elbow:
the cigarette between her fingers was held at such an angle that a mere flexing of the wrist would bring it
to her lips. Or should have. But now she'd turned her face away; she was staring off at some
invisible point more inside her head than in mere space. He stared; she did not look back at him.
Suddenly, as if she couldn't even bear to see him in her peripheral vision, she bent forward, letting her head
drop until he saw only the top of it. Her short, smooth, glossy black hair was parted in the middle;
below that, through the part of her thin robe, he saw her breasts, small and pointed, hanging down. He
opened the door. Like a shadow he slipped through, slipped away. The door shut. He was gone.
~ END ~