The following is a featured 100-word story from the December Writing Challenge.
Back then, I had only those eyelashes. Mom said I should wear makeup more, but it’s such a pain. When we met, you said I had beautiful eyes. That night, I bought new mascara.
Holding hands, you said I needed lotion. Baby, there is not enough lotion in a universe of pharmacy aisles to fight my angry skin. “These hands are all I have.” You said okay, but got me a tub of Eucerin—in my car, still sealed.
Kissing, you said my breath tasted like watermelon gum, so I left you with the pack. Tomorrow, I’ll buy some cinnamon-flavored.