The Shortest Story Ever Told


The Mistake

At the door he paused, his single suitcase 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 one of which rested an 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 distant point invisible to him.  He looked at her; she did not look back at him.  Suddenly, as if she couldn't bear to see him even in her peripheral vision, she bent forward, letting her head drop until the top of it was all he could see.  Her short, smooth, glossy black hair was parted in the middle; below that, through the part in 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.  Her head jerked up at the sound.  She stared.  He was gone.

~ END ~