It was November before I realized she had begun to unravel the stitching from my life. On a bitter morn, before the sun dissipated the frosted shivers of the past night’s air, before the roof-perched crows’ inharmonic chorus unsettled the soundness of my slumber, before I shook the grumbles out of my attitude and the sleep from my eyes, I awoke to the softness of jazz emanating from below me and for a moment, forgot that I no longer lived alone. It could be no one but Jeanne Dark.
First Lines Contest 2018: The Little Burgundy
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