She went shopping with her mother.
He went for drinks after work.
A sexy stranger. A drunken kiss. The wrong witness. Word spreads.
On the pier where he’d proposed six weeks earlier, everything comes undone.
The ring hits his chest, slips between the planks. Plop.
Gravel pelts his shins as her Mustang roars away.
Was she blinded by tears or the lights of the oncoming semi?
He shucks his boots, dives into the evening-calm water, wonders if the gloom of the lake floor is anything like her coma.
Prays if he finds the ring, maybe she, too, will finally resurface.
I’m desperately trying to find my fiction groove again–my muse has been AWOL for weeks–no cards, no letters, no phone calls. There was finally a tiny spark of something when I saw this week’s photo prompt for the Friday Fictioneers, so I snatched at it and actually managed to churn out a 100-word story.