Her Royal Wish

As a little giraffe, she insisted on being carried through most of the Boo Zoo, pulling off the hood to the costume each time I replaced it.

I borrowed a ladybug pullover and crafted the tutu myself, watching her run towards flickering jack o’ lanterns, glittered red tulle sparkling in the dusk.

Last year we fashioned a fairy costume from wings and tulle and glitter that found its way into our hair and clothes and fingernails for days.  I found a star shaped wand, but she insisted on the pumpkin.

This year, I hesitated. I asked what she wanted to be on Mondays and Tuesdays and Fridays, wavering between admiration for her staunch opinion and a churning mix of emotions about that opinion. Each time, she answered:

“A princess.”

And not just any princess.

“Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty or Belle or Tianna.”

A Disney Princess.

A princess drawn with shiny hair and wide eyes, a tiny waist and delicate features. A princess always paired with a heroic prince and a happily ever after.

What messages am I sending?  What is she hearing?

When she slides her small feet into my shoes, does she imagine a glass slipper? When I wield a blow dryer and a brush against my hair, does she picture the careful coif of a waltzing girl, waiting to be made a princess?

I offered to transform a black leotard and layers of tulle into a bee. “Cute! Maybe next year, after I am a princess.” I steered her towards an ice cream cone. “Mitt the Mouse is wearing that one.” I found a little pink fleece…something…maybe an elephant, before her glance aged ten years into the face of a teenager, complete with rolled eyes and an audible sigh.

“Cinderella.”

Then the text came, from a well-meaning friend: Disney princesses on sale.

I let her try it on, knowing I was giving in. Airy white and blue tulle, painted with silver swirls of glitter, ribbon-adorned sleeves puffing from her shoulders, sparkles reflecting light into the mirror, sparkles framing a face of pure joy.

“Mommy! It’s perfect. The mice will love it!”

So relieved she didn’t mention a prince, I acquiesced, not only buying it but purchasing a size that leaves room for years of balls and tea parties and more lessons about appreciating the inner sparkles as well as the ones littering our closet floor.

the prompt:

For Tuesday, reach back to a costume that made an impression.

Three Days Later

{Found in Drafts Folder}

Why am I scared of my own creaky house?  Turning on the lights will quash this crazy feeling, right?  See you at the coffee place tomo

the prompt:

Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.

Your text must elicit or express fear.

Respectfully, Mr. King, I Disagree

ready to slide

photo by Purple Sky Photo

More than fifteen bottles of nail polish languish in my make-up drawer: shell pink, tangerine, a metallic teal that stained my toenails for months.  Used a time or two before being forgotten.

My gaze wanders to our mantle, mentally redesigning the space.

I flip through running magazines looking for new workouts and training plans.

So when the Write On Edge prompt presented itself this week, I hesitated and considered calling it a night without a post scheduled for the morning.

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Disagreeing with the prolific Stephen King seems ridiculous.  His success is legendary, his path paved with best sellers and respect and ownership of his genre.

My path is unsure, a hill obscuring what is next.

And there are moments I agree with his statement.

I hesitate before throwing aside warm blankets on a cold morning; I shrink from jumping into Lake Michigan at the beginning of the summer, the water still chilled, waiting to be warmed by months of sun.

But bigger moments?  Realizing I was ready to get married? Choosing a new career path?  Starting a family?

Those moments don’t scare me.  I relish the planning, the anticipation, the adrenaline of putting my plan in motion. 

Follow through is what brings the fear. 

What if I made the wrong choice?

Why was I entrusted with the two most amazing creatures on the planet?

Am I crazy to think I’m capable of that? 

Stephen King might have a problem getting into a plane to skydive, but my doubts creep in after I’ve leapt into the sky, as I’m spiraling to the ground.

I can only pray that my parachute catches the wind on the way down.

the prompt:

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.

Word limit is 300.

And while we’re talking Stephen King, don’t forget! The first Read on Edge tweetchat will be Wednesday, October 19th! Happy reading and writing!

Moving Day

Greta paused, expecting her ex-husbands presence to echo off the walls and ceiling, magnifying in the now-empty space. 

Their argument over the paint color started as a joke.  Truly there wasn’t much difference between steel and dove, especially when they weren’t planning to change one brush stroke on the smooth walls.

But his voice had grown petulant, fading into uncomfortable silence as they shifted a couch and armchairs and her small Parsons desk into a workable configuration.  He slunk away as she poured wine, leaving her to settle into a cream IKEA armchair in the dusk, looking through the south window alone.

Today, freed from their cages beneath comfortably low couches, dust bunnies crept along white baseboards, scarred from lack of care with wayward shoes and table legs.

Grooves from her desk chair marred the birch floor, highlighted, along with dancing flecks of dust, by the sunlight streaming through the sole window.

“Ready?” Drew spoke from the doorway.

“What would you call these walls?” she asked cautiously, though they were past the point of tests.

 

“They’re grey, Gee,” he grinned simply.

 

Silently, she took his hand, pulling the door closed, leaving dust bunnies in peace.

the prompt:

This week we asked you to take us somewhere. Where was up to you -fiction or creative nonfiction- but we asked you to use your words to paint the setting as vividly as possible. In 200 words.

Interested? Read more of Greta's story.

Running at Night

Three shapes loom in the darkness, directly in my path.

My eyes strain into the shadows, my breathing ragged.

Turning off my music, my heartbeat floods my ears, quickening beyond recognition.

They’re only trees.

The undeniable glow of a cigarette gleams in the darkness.

One of the figures lurches forward, then back, forward again.

My feet are committed to my route.

I find energy for one last sprint, pounding past the lurching body as it reaches out.

My gasp is audible.

Mocking laughter follows me as I finally slow, escaping the clutches of a smiling fall scarecrow.

why run when you can ride a horse?

the prompt:

This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.

You have 100 words, use them wisely.

They Should Have Worn Flats

Greta’s hands curled around the cardboard cup, searching for comfort as she breathed in the distinctive scent of coffee and chicory.  They’d been in New Orleans for three days, and she was half in love with the city, but the coffee made her think of mornings with Drew.

A dusting of powdered sugar and the lingering scent of rum replaced Cate’s carefully applied make-up and perfume.  Wrinkling her nose a bit, Greta tested the café au lait, cooled from scalding, knowing it would only compound the filmy feeling in her mouth.  Cate wasn’t the only one radiating rum fumes.

Cate reached wordlessly for the cup, and it passed between them like an embrace, recognizing years of familiarity. 

Hours ago, as their other friends retreated back to the hotel, Cate and Greta tightened their dancing circle until it was only the two of them, shaking and squealing to every song, even the ones they were hearing for the first time.  Drawn in by short dresses, impossible platforms, and laughter spilling from glossed lips, men found their greetings received with a smile, then subtly dismissed.

“I want a girls’ weekend!” Cate had insisted, the last of their small group to need a bachelorette party.

“A spa weekend?” Greta had questioned, already resigned to the inevitable answer.

“Sure, we can hit a spa.  After we dance until our feet fall off,” Cate had replied, her infectious giggle the reason Greta knew she would give Cate the bachelorette weekend of her dreams.

Now, sitting on back to back benches, feet kicked up onto armrests, Greta and Cate shared the third beignet and cup of coffee, swollen feet only part of the reason they were watching the sun rise, humidity already dampening the streets.

“Thanks G,” Cate spoke up suddenly, all of the rum gone from her voice.

“Anytime C.  Anytime,” Greta answered absently, flexing her toes in her red heels, her head tilted towards her friend’s curls.

“This must be a little awful,” Cate continued.  “The wedding…”

Caffeine pushed Cate’s meaning through the fog of exhaustion into which Greta had settled.

“Oh, honey.  No.  Your wedding is amazing.  Your groom is amazing,” Greta smiled, making sure their eyes met and held as she passed the coffee yet again.

“He is, isn’t he?” Cate laughed as she swung her legs to the ground, wincing a little.  “I just worried this would be a tough weekend for you.”

Greta’s fingers touched her purse briefly, the text message she had received less than an hour ago memorized.

“You deserved the best dance party we could find.  It wasn’t tough at all,” Greta reassured.

Going on our run and missing you.  I’m calling the movers tomorrow. Xo

The balls of her feet flamed with each step as they began the walk back to their hotel.

“I’d say it was perfect.”

This is the latest in Greta's story.

the prompt:

We had a photo prompt this week

New Orleans...my favorite...

Her Mother's Pearls

INT – GUEST BEDROOM, DAY

Sunlight streams through a window, curtains pulled back to allow for maximum light.

The room is spotless, a cream shag rug contrasting sharply with the dark wooden floors, clean but worn.

The closet door is firmly closed, the only signs of the room’s inhabitant are the glass perfume bottles and leather jewelry case sitting on the elongated dresser, in front of the mirror.

ABBEY walks into the room, slowly, wrapping her oversized sweater more tightly around her waist.  The rich grey picks up the few strands of silver threaded through her long hair, twisted into a neat chignon, slightly off center.

Muffled voices grow almost imperceptible as ABBEY closes the door to the hallway

ABBEY (V.O.)

My mother always said she lived a very ordinary life…

ABBEY opens the jewelry box and picks up several strands of pearls, letting them slide through her fingers before placing them absentmindedly in the pocket of her sweater, hand remaining in the pocket, closed around the necklace.

ABBEY’S eyes follow the shaft of sun to an old trunk sitting against the wall.  Dust dances in the sunlight as she opens the lid, revealing frame photographs, yellowing journals, and worn books.

“Wonderful Tonight” (instrumental) quietly plays (BACKGROUND)

ABBEY (V.O.)

…blessed by a collection of extraordinary moments…

Kneeling next to the trunk, ABBEY picks up and gently places a wedding photo of Ryan and Angela on the floor next to her, fingers tracing the outline of their faces.

MUSIC fades into “Baby Mine”.

ABBEY places two more frames next to the wedding picture, a pink framed photograph of her as a baby, holding a pink cell phone upside down, wearing a pink gingham jumper, and a black and white photo of DYLAN as a newborn, wearing only a polka-dot diaper cover, fist curled under his chin.

ABBEY (V.O.)

She told me, more than once, that she knew she wanted to be a writer from the time she knew how to write…

She carefully pulls a journal out of the trunk and places it on top of the frames.

Her hand reaches back into her sweater pocket to feel the pearls as she looks back towards the perfume bottles.

ABBEY (V.O.)

…but she said she knew she would be a writer the summer she went to journalism camp at Columbia University.

AIRPLANE TAKING OFF (Background)

Fade to black.

I'd say "be gentle," since I've never even attempted screenplay formatting until now.  But I guess I can't say that, since I helped come up with the prompt.

Obviously, I've taken some artistic license with this piece.

 

the prompt:

Congratulations! Your best selling memoir has just been optioned by a major motion picture studio, and the producers want you advising on the script.  Write the opening scene for the movie.  Would you begin with a visual montage?  Voice-over? Flashback or forward? A conversation? The trick here is to look through a lens. The camera needs to tell the story through visuals, action, dialogue.

Tickets for Two?

SWM iso SF

Tickets for Two?

I’m a movie buff.  I won’t say “film buff,” because I like Weekend at Bernie’s just as much as an Ingmar Bergman marathon on a Saturday night.  I’ll share my popcorn – if you’ll share your Junior Mints.

My camera’s usually nearby, but I run for cover if someone starts taking video.  Like David Lynch once said, “I like to remember things my own way. How I remembered them, not necessarily the way they happened.” 

I’ll take computer-slowing amounts of photos, though, from the graffiti on the buildings downtown to sunlight streaming through your hair…if you don’t mind, of course.

You don’t need to be a runner, but I hope you don’t mind that I am.  The endurance helps me keep up with you on the dance floor when we go to listen to live music.  

Ideally, you’d love the water, get excited about eating guacamole for dinner once in a while, and be willing to watch one of my nieces and nephews play soccer some weekend, if I bring the coffee and donuts.

According to Tarantino, there are only two kinds of people in the world, Beatles people and Elvis people…Somewhere you have to make a choice. And that choice, tells you if you want to go out with me. Or something like that.

Because I’m an Elvis guy.  I’d like the think any actual resemblance is closer to Army Elvis than Peanut Butter and Banana Elvis, and I promise to leave the sequined jumpsuits at home – most of the time.

the prompt:

Let’s have fun this week. We want you to write a personal ad for your character, like one you would find on a dating site. The ad should tell us about your character, but should not be a laundry list – and no cliches about walks on the beach.

An Evening in Louisiana

*I originally wrote this post for writing prompts noted at the end of the post.  If you're reading it again, I think you'll agree that I couldn't change my idea of the perfect gift.

All week, our swimsuits stayed tucked into suitcases, tank tops and sundresses hidden beneath cardigan sweaters and, one night, a black and silver feather boa purchased from a little store that didn’t mind us shopping with to-go cups of deceptively sweet hurricanes in our hands.

Cool air kept the infamous humidity at bay, hidden behind the wrought iron fences embracing the lush yards of the Garden District Home. 

I planned one night of relaxation before driving back to Michigan, but raindrops and cloud cover meant the tiny, private pool would languish unused during our stay at Nottoway Plantation.

Wrapped in a sweater, I settle into a wrought iron chair in our courtyard, glad Ryan upgraded our room as a surprise.  After the garish lights and bustle of Bourbon Street, the privacy is luxurious and surreal, aqua lights shining from the pool to cast a cool glow onto the stone walls barring us from any distractions.

Champagne flutes sit on the little table between us, pushed back slightly when we pull our chairs together, edges touching.  He sips once or twice, then his glass is forgotten, effervescence bubbling to the surface like our conversation, natural and effortless.

I relax.  Even in the cool air, the chilled champagne is cold on my tongue, sweetly tickling the roof of my mouth before dancing dryly down my throat.  The ornately detailed chair presses into my thighs, etching its pattern onto my skin like a memory.

My bare legs are ready to go inside before long, but Ryan takes my hands in both of his, his warmth banishing the chill in the air.

Looking into his eyes, blue and grey and green, the cool breeze grows still.  Slowly, our effortless conversation morphs into something else.  The turquoise water bathes us in a reflective glow, powered by words that do more than ask a question, the question. 

Yes.

Tears prick at my lids but are whisked away by our matching smiles, the fierce tenderness of our embrace.  Laughter bubbles as we realize he’s still on one knee, making our hug perfectly awkward and unforgettable.

Yes.

He lets go of my hands at some point, because suddenly there’s a ring nestled in black velvet, the sheen of platinum circling around to a diamond, made for my finger, made for this moment.

Twinkling in the muted light, each facet reflects a new color, every color a promise.  In its sparkles, I see our family, hugs of comfort and celebration, this ring circling a finger bent and riddled with old age.  I see a life together.

Our life together.

Forever and ever, yes.  

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: Priorities

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

the prompt:

Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.

I'm also linking this over at the Lauren Nicole Gifts Blog, for their new monthly link-up.This month's theme is "the best gift you've ever received."

Fourteen Hours

Fourteen hours and eleven minutes separated elation and anxiety.

Tangled together in bed this morning, limbs and sheets and hair twisted into a comfortable cocoon, Drew had leaned over her.

“Move in with me?”

Her eyebrows drew together for a brief instant before smoothing perfectly back into her creamy brow.  Bright eyes danced as she drew his lips down to her own, answering his question with a teasing kiss that quickly turned urgent.

“Going to the gym, babe!” Corrine yelled in the general direction of the bathroom, almost an hour later.  “I’ve got meetings all day, but I’ll see you around six.”

The door slammed before he had a chance to say he loved her.

Before he realized she had never really answered him.

Shampoo stung his eyes as he stared at the tiled wall, dispassionately analyzing what had seemed recklessly passionate moments before.

Fourteen hours and twelve minutes later, it was after six, and she still hadn’t returned.

Drew paced.

His small loft wasn’t built for pacing.  The view of the water and proximity to his favorite restaurants had meant more than square footage.  After all, a single guy didn’t take up much room, and he’d never been a dog person.

Back and forth and back and forth.

From the sliding balcony door to the stainless steel kitchen sink and back took less than twenty seconds.

He should have gone for a run after work, killed some time, cleared his mind.  His running shoes were by the closed door, always waiting to envelop his feet and take whatever beating he was willing to give them.

Back and forth.

Nervously, he picked up a framed photo of the two of them, taken on some ski trip with her friends.  She loved the candid shot, their foreheads touching, her eyes discovering the camera at the last moment, laughter spilling from her eyes before it reached the rest of her features.

Fourteen hours and thirteen minutes.

Unable to stop himself, he glanced down at his watch, the chrome face mocking him with its unmoving numbers.

Anxious eyes carried to the door, fading almost to grey each time he realized the knob hadn’t begun to twist open.

He forced himself to stop pacing and instead leaned his forehead against the wall of eastward facing windows, willing the rhythmic waves to lull him back to the serenity he had felt that morning, wrapped in her warmth, before he had said anything about their future.

The door opened.

He turned.

Relief washed over him the moment he saw her face, light sparkling the amber of her eyes into gold, richly telling him everything he needed to know. 

In seconds, he crossed from the windows to where she stood, offering her mouth to him with a sigh.

She danced away a moment later.  Another sigh.

“I can’t Drew.  I just can’t,” she finally answered.

Fourteen hours and twenty-one minutes after he had realized he was utterly, inescapably in love, he realized she wasn’t.

He discovered that sometimes eyes lied.

For those of you following Greta's story, I thought we could find out a little more about the new man in her life.  If you don't "know" Greta, you can catch up or take this as a stand-alone piece.

 

the prompt:

This week we’d like you to explore romantic heartbreak. For you fiction writers, here’s a chance to really delve into the psyche of your character. For you non-fiction folk, well, maybe it’s into your psyche you must delve. We all remember that first love, just like we all remember when our hearts broke for the first time.

Write a piece – 600 word limit – about the first heartbreak your character or you experienced.

Shedding the Familiar

“You can’t wear that,” Cate announced boldly, though it had taken a rather large glass of wine to find her boldness.

Greta felt her smile falter. 

She looked forward to her nights out with her girlfriends, circling the date in her planner and staring at it during mind-numbing staff meetings or nights at home when In Style called to her more loudly than one of her beloved novels or the never-ending chain of e-mails she often tackled from her couch.

Cate pushed back the blonde curls ever tumbling over her forehead, despite headbands and bobby pins and expensive styling products that she ended up tossing across her bathroom in disgust.

Boldness might not have been the right tactic.

“Oh don’t look at me like that!  You look great, Gee, but you still can’t wear that.”

Carrying her own wine glass into the hallway, craning her neck to look in Cate’s full-length mirror, Greta turned a critical eye to her reflection, searching for her error.

The cotton shift fell nearly to her knees, the blue slightly deeper than the palest shade on the paint swatch that sat, forgotten, on her kitchen counter at home.  Flattering and familiar, it was one of Greta’s favorite dresses.

“It’s pretty,” Greta smiled at her college roommate, “And it doesn’t matter.  I didn’t bring anything else.”

“Of course it’s pretty,” Cate said, waving her chipped manicure dismissively, “Everything you have is pretty.  Well, except those yoga pants you won’t get rid of.  But maybe it’s time that you branched out beyond pretty.”

Greta drank her wine, letting Cate ruminate in thought.  After a suspiciously short moment, Cate rushed into her bedroom and returned with a mass of denim in the hand not occupied by a wine glass.

“Try these.  They’re too small on me,” Cate explained with an exaggerated sigh, walking back to the café table for more wine.

Holding up the jeans, a tendril of wariness snaked around her brain.  Cate had been the same size since they had lived together years ago.  A size Greta was always dancing just above, even on her thinnest days.

“Where’d you get these?”

“What?  I told…” Cate trailed off, then looked up, eyes traipsing between mischief and guilt.

“Fine.  I bought them.  I know they’ll be perfect.  It’s time you got back into some sexy jeans,” Cate said, giggling in defiance.

“What I’m wearing is fine,” Greta protested.  “It’s not like I’m the only one not wearing your fancy jeans uniform.”

Cate’s hand waved through the air again.

“Maybe not.  But you’re the one who needs them.”

“I’m not ready to deal with dating quite yet,” Greta said quietly, eyes entreating Cate to understand.

“Oh honey, who said anything about dating?” Cate poured both of them more wine, eyes and smile embracing Greta from across the room.  “You need them.  Not any of the guys lucky enough to see you wearing them.  Just try ‘em on.”

Knowing they would fit perfectly – Cate’s eye for clothes was both a gift and a practiced skill – Greta slid into them, reluctantly.

Walking into Cate’s closet to pull out a forgettable, forgivingly stretchy top, Greta felt a change in her gait. 

“It’s the wine,” she told herself, sliding her feet into her neutral heels, twisting in front of the mirror to inspect every possible angle for a reason not to wear the gift.

It wasn’t the wine. 

Greta wore the jeans for three straight days.

If you're interested in Greta's story, this piece takes place between "She'll Understand" and "Her Red Shoes".

 

the prompt:

Jeans. They can evoke so much emotion in us: the hot jeans we wear on a date, the skinny jeans we can finally fit into, mom jeans we vow never to wear, the comfy jeans we’ll never throw out.

The assignment this week is to write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – in which jeans play a prominent role. You can even write an ode if you’re so inclined.

Space for Sweaters?

I miss my childhood closet.

Each time I’m visiting my parents, generally once a week, I climb the stairs of the 1970’s colonial and peer enviously into the room they still call “Angela’s room”.

Over the years, gold shag carpeting and yellow wallpaper gave way to delicate blue and white paper and blue plush carpeting, then finally a cream Berber and spring green walls.  The feminine, off-white furniture has been pushed around in every possible layout.

The closet remains unchanged.

Ryan and I don’t live in a 1970’s colonial.

People generally sigh wistfully when they hear our house was built in the 1920’s.

“Old houses have so much character,” they say, looking around at the built-in bookcases and coved ceilings.

I generally sigh in frustration as the seasons change, and I try to rearrange our closets.

Our house has two relatively large linen closets, but our master bedroom has two miniscule closets, built into the part of the room where the ceiling slopes, rendering much of the already cramped space unusable. 

When we moved into the house, and Ryan had time for projects other than tucking Abbey into bed for the third time each night, he carefully measured and engineered a series of shelves in our closets, trying to maximize the space.

It was a valiant effort, and it generally works for him.  Also, he has generously allowed me the entire dresser for my things.

I still struggle.

Shoes in boxes, so they can stack?  Out of boxes, so I can see them easily and cram my size sixes into the corners?

Bags in the hall closet or my closet?  Accessories on shelves or in boxes on shelves?

 

Clothes hung by color or clothing weight or length?

Every configuration seems wrong.

I try not to think of my childhood closet, empty and open, at my parents’ house.

Innocently, I grew up taking my walk-in closet for granted.  Graced with clothing bars and shelves and oodles of floor space; I never filled it, even as a teenager.  I would laze on the floor, reading books, writing in my journal, whispering into my pink, plastic phone.  My closet was a little cave, carpeted and safe.

My current closet is a little cave as well, cramped and dark, littered with mismatched shoes and belts that Abbey pulls on and off with interest, abandoning them and moving along to eye my jewelry box.

In the 1920’s, I guess people weren’t concerned with whether they had room to add a pair of jewel tone heels to their fall shoe collection.

My old house might have character, but I miss my childhood closet.

prompt:

This week’s prompt is to use this image for your inspiration and begin your post with those words…”I miss my childhood…”

The image is a lined sheet of paper, the writing in a child's handwriting, and I originally had a different concept for this week's piece.

Then it got cold, and I tried to find something warm to wear.

A Coffee Mug

The smell roused her before the whirring sound of her coffee maker grinding to life, pulling her from a dream.

Greta slid out of bed with a smile, stretching her arms overhead and sweeping them down to her toes. 

Sunlight streamed through a rather small window in her room; she pulled the curtains open before going to bed each night, loving the way the natural light coaxed her into alertness as fresh coffee beckoned her to the kitchen.

Especially on Saturdays.  On Saturdays she did her long runs.

Running soothed her. 

The routine way her legs carried her slowly on the short route to the storefront, the few blocks a perfect warm-up for the run, the solitary time allowing her time with her thoughts before running alongside other members of the group. 

The way the same path through the neighborhood could be different each time, weather, her mood, background music all changing and adding a new dimension to the familiar buildings and cracks in the sidewalk. 

The way she could ease in and out of her own thoughts, her music low in her ears so she could carry on breathless conversations with her running partners.

They had been strangers before she had laced up her brand new shoes to tentatively run with them.  Quickly, they became friendly  acquaintances.  Some slid effortlessly into the friend category, friendships formed in the easy silence of their runs and the chatty confidences shared over sweaty cups of coffee or walks home.

Padding into the kitchen, she poured the small, single cup of coffee she had before her morning runs, adding a dash of flavored creamer and artificial sweetener, vowing yet again to give up the little rectangle of chemical sweetness. Tomorrow.

Greta leaned slightly into the steam coming from her mug, curling her hands around the ceramic warmth.  Her ears acknowledged a sudden silence. 

The steady stream of the shower fit so seamlessly into her consciousness that she had barely noticed it until it stopped.

Deliberately, she pulled another mug out of the cupboard, eyes happily resting on the worn pair of running shoes near the front door, dwarfing hers in size but mixed together comfortably with the other shoes lingering on the tiled entry.

Today she wouldn’t be running her warm-up alone.

If you haven't met Greta yet and would like to know more about her, you can read more at Greta's Story. 

the prompt:

This week, with Labor Day and the end of summer rapidly approaching, we asked you to write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical.