He held onto her legs as she tried to slip out of the skylight and onto the roof. The rest of her body lay stomach-flat on shingles.
"Let go," she said, the cigarette still in her fingers. He could see the smoke rising, as if from the chimney. A dying fire.
He tightened his hand around her small ankle and felt the bone pressing hard between his thumb and finger. "You'll fall."
"Richard?" from somewhere inside.
"So what?" She whispered that. "It would be easier."
He let go and she released the cigarette, pressed herself to the roof.
Troy Wallace lives in the Midwest and writes when he finds the time.
Copyright 2008 Troy Wallace
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