Without the formality of the salute, they moved into place, fencers in their final match, squaring off when he came to get his things--his portion of their life together. Engaging in conversation, words their rapiers, parrying...advance...retreat; her pain at being found wanting like a stone bruise; invisible, yet, far too tender to the touch. She feinted, saying in a low voice how confident he'd become since he'd met his lover. Flustered, flattered, preening...his defense dropped, asking why did she think so. Executing a fast riposte, serene smile in place, she struck the winning touch, "Because every time you fuck her, you boldly go where so many have gone before." He gazed dully at the closed door, his hand reaching up to stroke his face, seeking traces of blood from where his ego had been nicked.
Thus reads my accepted submission for the second volume of work by those who contribute to Six Sentences. It was.... wrapped with my own emotions.