After breakfast, I shot out to the grocery store, and then spent almost 4 hours straight in the kitchen making a tomato-based pasta sauce with roasted veggies and chunks of stewing beef, so after it cooks for several hours, everything will be tender and delicious.
Then I marinated trout in red wine, added garlic, fresh rosemary, peppercorns, and slices of orange. Going to cook that soon and see how it tastes since I just made up the recipe as I went, just like the pasta sauce recipe.
The sauce is still simmering on low, I'm a big believer in good sauce taking about 5-8 hours to make.
So, that's the reason I'm posting my flash fiction piece so late... and here it is, 200 words:
Around midnight, I creep to the window and peek through the blinds. My feet are cold, my throat dry. It’s hard not to breathe, not to create a cloud of condensation that might be seen on the glass of the unlit room.
The rusted blue pick-up truck is still parked under the broken street lamp.
It was there earlier when I went to bed, someone lurking in the front seat, blurred and unsavoury under the night sky. Though the figure doesn’t move, I know it’s not a shadow or an abandoned coat draped over the seat. I can feel the eyes, the stare, calculating and intense with purpose.
Even if they have a reason to be here, I don’t trust them. Strangers.
Paranoia is born in the dark, where you can’t see, when you can only imagine, and every moment of guilt oozes into the next and explodes like cancer until you’re slick with fear.
I realize I’m flexing my back, legs taut, adrenaline tugging me onto my toes.
Then there’s a gentle voice, calling me back to bed.
I glance again at the truck, then hop off the windowsill with a lash of my tail.