“That blank page at the beginning of a book? That’s me,” Wanda says and goes out the door. All that remains of her is a dent on my pillow. I visit her apartment, which is vacated, and she has never existed, according to her neighbors. I resign. I forget Wanda for a time. Winter comes. I see a woman shivering next to a car with the hood propped up. I jump-start it. We get married a year later and we celebrate three anniversaries, and every so often, my wife is not home and there is a knock at the door. I do not answer. I hold my breath until the knocking stops, because Wanda said one other thing, that she has a sister who is the blank page at the end of a book.
flash fiction | Tommy Tung
photography | Pexels
Fiction Mostly 