She flung herself against the door, and stumbled onto the sidewalk. “I’m done anyway!” she hollered over her shoulder.
A man tried to step aside, but put himself in her path instead. He managed to keep his balance and backed away as soon as he set her upright.
“Run away. They all do,” she muttered.
She exhaled a long sigh and brushed the hair off her cheek with the back of her hand. She watched the warm fog of her breath trail into wisps, reminding her of the smoke from a freshly-lit cigarette.
The thought of cigarettes made her think of wine. She liked nothing better than a glass (or three) of Merlot when she smoked. Like a row of dominoes toppling over, thoughts of wine led to Chicken Cacciatore, which made her remember last night’s dinner, the proposal that didn’t happen, his wish to see other people, spilled drinks, harsh words, and an exit without goodbye.
Now she remembered why tequila kept her company tonight.
And why she would hate herself again in the morning.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Scriptor Obscura invited me to try out a word challenge. Following the link in her response to a comment I made on her recent challenge submission, I found myself on Trifecta, which provided a one-word prompt challenge (this is week eighteen).
She didn’t double-dog-dare me to try it, but I’d feel like a big chicken if I shied away. So I preened my feathers, grabbed my laptop and clucked typed my entry.
Trail [verb \ˈtrāl\] 3: to move, flow, or extend slowly in thin streams <smoke trailing from chimneys>