HH4 Microfiction

I’d button up my shirt or coat and keep waiting, like a wife. I was good at it, at deprivation.

We climbed the front steps. If we got rid of the junk cluttering up the verandah and put in a baby gate, we could make it safe for Oren. 

It began in small ways, in the extra gleam she gave to the finish of her hair in the morning…

Mrs. Jones walks the line, her pants hissing as she thwacks a wooden ruler against her palm.

Swaying. I don’t know why. Veering to the wrong side. One. Still shimmying. Two. Straight for us. Three.