Messages, A Little Story...

Wednesday Weekly Writing Prompt!

It's Wednesday and so I'm writing another little tidbit of a story. Here's the link to Nicole Pyle's site: HERE.

This week's story must include the following words: 

Jet

Chuckle

Hour

Grandmother

Missed

Again, less than 500 words, the finished story must be linked to Nicole's site and there's a week to complete it. If you're thinking about giving it a try, do it! It's really fun.

Messages

    The moment Tom opened the door to his cramped apartment he knew she was gone. The realization of his loneliness descended upon him like a bomb. This time, he thought. She would not be coming back.
    The door closed, the familiar squeak of the aging hinges mixed with the sounds of humanity under stress came from the city street seven floors below. Tom looked around expecting to see her, but knowing the futility of his gaze would yield nothing. The apartment looked pretty much the same, Sarah never had a lot of physical possessions—only memories of her remained in the humid air.
     It was late. Tom had waited, even volunteered to close the coffee shop. He purposely missed the last bus and took a taxi, all in an effort to come home an hour later than normal. He did this because he was afraid to face the very reality that now engulfed the solitary man.
    Tom walked into the kitchen and spotted the answering machine that sat on the counter. One message, as proclaimed by a red blinking number "1" on the small device. Tom hoped it was Sarah that had called, but the pain of hearing her voice would prove worse than if he didn’t. Tom ran his fingers through his jet-black hair and dropped his keys on the counter as he listened to the voice-mail message. He let out a chuckle as the voice from the small white box came not from Sarah, the woman he once loved, but from his grandmother. He’d call her later.
    The easy chair in the apartment’s only room called to him and Tom answered its siren song. The faux leather offered as much comfort as any inanimate object could and Tom expelled spent air from his lungs as he welcomed and thanked the object for assuming the weight of, not only his body, but his soul.
    Tom wasn’t sure how long he slept. An ambulance at least 70 feet below woke him and he saw the pale light of morning filter through the window. He rose and saw something on the coffee table. On the table rested a postcard. Had it been there when he came in last night? Tom’s hazy mind didn’t know. He picked up the postcard and his eyes focused on the picture of a bright orange building. He knew all about that building and where it was. Sarah’s family used to vacation there when she was a child. He turned the card over. It was blank.