submitted by Gloria Herms, contributing writer
The doors closed. The sun silently slips through the back window, making herself known as a slice of yellow across the dusty table. The particles arise and dance in adoration.
A shuffle in the dark, a grunt, …..low voice…., mumbles,… a sigh. The sofa sags on one side. The device illuminates a pale face.
Her beauty unacknowledged, she aptly moves on, taking her dancers with her.