My wife, the beauty queen, he used to introduce her, on account of that one time when they were sixteen and she won a high school pageant. She would blush and give him a stern look, and he would smile at her until she relaxed again.

They used to hold hands all the time, too. Now all he holds is a brandy snifter full of the good stuff while his rheumy eyes keep a liquid watch on the blue gilt urn atop the mantle, nestled between the silver-framed pictures of smiling grandkids and a woman who used to be a beauty queen.

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Every Sunday I’ll be posting a little bit of flash fiction to keep me on my fingers. Inspired by S. Asher Sund.