FROM HAND TO HAND
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Douglas M MacIlroy
I watch you pass the ball from hand to hand, adrenaline spilling from your adorable edges in your excitement at getting on the team. You call it a battle you must win.
In that moment you are gone.
You message me when you land. And once more. Now nothing for three days. All I have left is the knife-blade of scent on your faded old fleece. How I wish I were a hundred years ago, soothed by you beside me on something you touched and folded and kissed. Strange. These days we call that kind of thing a hard copy.