Janet Reid is running another flash fiction contest this weekend. The entry right before mine is splendid, but I put mine in anyway ...
She trembled, sighed. Filled the pitcher with tonic. A tablespoon of sugar. Ice cubes.
The gin was in the freezer. Grand, she thought, it's just enough. Time soon to get to the store for another bottle, replace that wretched not-Bailey's Irish cream.
The forgotten thrill – down her throat, under her ears – strong, cold alcohol. She sat on the back porch and watched traffic at the intersection. The light changed, the cars surged. Coming, going, gone. But always more.
It took 16 surges, 16 cycles of the light. The phone rang.
He was coming in October.