"You know we could burn it all down, right?" she says, wistful smile on her lips.
"Yeah." I know we won't.
Lightning crackles between her fingers. It sends tingles up my arm when I take her hand.
"Maybe after this next job," she suggests.
"Maybe."
'Til then, we're quiet together.
What is a writer?
A miserable little pile of words!
Call me MP or Miz
Fiction attempted, with various levels of success.
Yes, I do need help, thank you for noticing.
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