Mirage

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She lived in a windmill.  How poetic.  He imagined her beautiful, simple life, the one she’d described in all of her messages. She spent her days taking long bike rides along fields bursting with tulips and painting the many watercolor landscapes that adorned the unique dwelling.

The door opened, and there she was.  The beautiful face that he’d stared at on his computer screen every night for nearly a year.  The face he’d flown over a thousand miles to see in person.  Her smile was friendly, but there was no recognition in her eyes.

“It’s me,” he said hopefully, thinking of the dozens of pics they’d exchanged.   Did he really look that different in person?  Her good manners prevailed and she took a tentative step back to allow him inside.  As she gathered the strength to tell him that she had no idea who he was, she didn’t notice her mother tucking her laptop under her arm and exiting through the backdoor.  She’d decided she needed a long, thoughtful walk in the sun.

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

 

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24 thoughts on “Mirage

  1. Oops, sounds like mom has some explaining to do! Although *most* of the description of her life was accurate, that should count for something, right? (And you paint a lovely photo of life in a windmill, too.)

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