They lay in bed, separated by a stack of books arranged to define the divide more than to be read. She finished a Bradbury story and mused: “What if today were the last day of our lives?”
"What?," he snapped, studying the crossword; the answer to 'effortful but futile' was crystallizing –
"I wouldn't do anything different," she pronounced, mouth pursed. “That'd be – flighty.”
“Sisyphean!,” he crowed.
“You weren't listening,” she complained, adding, "Take your pills," as she fluffed pillows. Obediently, he swallowed her medicine, she his. And but for this – deviation, if you will – their last day was altogether ordinary.
written in 2007 when i was challenged to tell a 100-word story