MORNING by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
Her legs were stretched out, imitating the lines of the floorboards.
Maybe even outdoing them.
The half empty cup of black coffee rested by her side, a plume of steam rising from the lip of the mug.
Late morning light streamed in through the window, creating soft patches on the weathered boards, while accentuating her lithe build.
I regretted having to leave on such short notice, but when I stepped towards the door, she remained seated.
Then I walked away without looking back.