Deb autographed Weaver for me. It made me really happy.

She prodded his leg with her foot. All the things she was supposed to do were listing themselves in her head, but she pushed them aside for the moment and looked down. She nudged his shoulder, harder. He flopped onto his back with a dull thud. A thud and a twitch.

She frowned slowly, and fired another bullet, this time into his head.

A final twitch.

She shrugged, dropping the gun from her gloved hand onto his chest and reaching down to grab his ankles. Not too bad for the first time, considering.

She'd get it down pat soon enough.

Wow. Yikes. That's...dude.

Turn that into a story.

More hearts and flowers from me...just one affirming drabble after another. It scares me that this was my first thought, but it's the beginning of one of my WIPs. But, yes, I did quit therapy? How'd you know?

Oh, God, he was dead. Just lying there, dead. Cheryl had gotten up, to rest her knees, and he had leaned back, gasping.Now it was too quiet. ”Henry, you don’t look... I told you trying to do this in the park was stupid. I thought it was women who read the stupid articles and went off half-coc...sorry. What am I saying?”Cheryl’s heart hammered in her chest. Please, let him not be dead. She put her mouth on his, and crazily thought it wasn’t that much different from this morning.”Come on, breathe, damn it.” She said, even halfway knowing it was too late.

He knew she was awake. She was never this still in her sleep. Plus, she snored. The cat curled tightly behind her neck had one eye open, staring at him resentfully.

She knew he was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at her. She knew he was sorry, that he hadn't meant it, that he just wished everything could be the same as before. But nothing ever stayed the same, and even if he hadn't meant it, he'd been thinking it, or why else would the words have been so handy for him to say?

In the morning they'd both pretend it was old news. Or maybe it had never happened. Never going to bed without settling a fight sometimes only led to sleepless nights, and bosses in the morning didn't care why you were exhausted.

Twenty years together meant something, even if only knowing when to just swallow the words and let the night carry the whole mess away.

one of these days I'm gonna write a happy drabble

Oh, Connie, wow. I really like that. And know whereof I like.

The detail is nice, too, especially the bit about the cat. Last week, I cried at Whale Rider, and the dog was convinced that the SO had done something to upset me. He glared at him balefully for about a half an hour until we had reassuring family puppy time.

Yes, that is really good. And murder and mayhem deficient, unlike mine.

I do have a happy drabble on the theme

Joe was always honest about what first attracted him to me. "You've got great tits," he said, propping his head up on his hand. "Plus, they're real."

"Most tits, not being holographic, are real." What passes for pillow talk with a geek girl and her first serious lover.

"Well, there's real, then there's real." He got up and went to the foot locker by the bed. The locker that held three years of back issues of Playboy, legacy of a stint in the Navy in the last days of Vietnam. Now, though, he pulled out several issues, flipping to the middle to check the centerfold. "See? Fake tits."

"How can you tell?" And we spent the next several hours comparing two dimensions unfavorably to three dimensions.

And murder and mayhem deficient

Yes, sigh. Life is dull.

Connie, I liked that one too. It was cute. Or, you know, endearing or something.