Rut

I need a new story. Badly. I need a new story so badly that I opened a new Word document and named it "ineedanewstory.doc." I did that last week. Today, I opened it up to see what I had written (I rarely remember this type of thing these days, what with my three kids and their increasingly madcap ways). This was all I had to show for my sorry-ass self:

Marga held the small mirror up close and took a tour of her face, stopping with appropriate gasps at the imperfections that appeared daily now. This morning she located a new line starting from between her eyebrows and creeping like ivy up to the center of her forehead. Below her temple on the left, four grey hairs had sprouted—quite literally, for she had checked her hair before going to bed—overnight. She plucked them out one by one, punctuating each pull with a word: “You. Are. All. Assholes.”