She bought the old manual typewriter on a whim. It seemed to call to her that day in the antique shoppe.
Robert was in bed snoring when she set it up in the study. Sipping Merlot, wondering what to type, she needn’t have; as the moment her fingertips rested on asdfjkl; they typed of their own volition faster than she’d ever typed in her seventy years.
Eyes widened, throat dry, and breath shallow she read the words:
“I’ve waited thirty years for you to tell Robert. Now choose which of you joins me at midnight.”
The clock struck eleven.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the host of Friday Fictioneers.