Working Onna Sunday


Steam rose. His hands were sweating inside those thick leather gloves. Someone called out his name. He looked up, his eyes were dark and scrunched, skin folding at well established creases. The rest of him wore simple clothes; he was about forty. Holding a wrench, he blocked the glare from the windows and the cars outside. A mechanical hiss, and a cloud of steam, thick and white formed before him. The atmosphere swayed like a curtain as the whiteness dissipated. And there she was, like a mirage, warped, but that was only the illusion; and beautiful, just as he remembered.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Word Count: 100


10 thoughts on “Working Onna Sunday

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