She leaves through the front door as he enters through the back, fitting her footsteps into the giant prints he’s freshly embedded in the snow; he’ll never know how nearly he just missed her.
After he left this morning for the job she’s discovered he doesn’t have, telling her he was having a drink after work with the friend now living in another country, she’d stood watching snowflakes feathering the lawn, fringing the kitchen windows, slowly burying the remains of his credibility.
This will be the last snowfall of the winter. It’s a good time to make tracks of her own.
I’ve loved Dale’s snow pictures this winter, and this is one of her most atmospheric. Thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers out of another winter.