Slipped

Fiction

The computer froze when Marcus was checking in on their crypto.

Feilani remembered the cussing and one fist pound on the desk, then Marcus grabbed his coat and went out the door.

You can get anything delivered now, people of all descriptions bringing tacos, cases of champagne, and omelets into the building.

And they bring snow, too, Feilani can tell you.

Snow that sticks to boots as they cut through the small evergreen hedgerow,  walking across the lawn of the building, five inches deep that day.

And that snow melts, just about immediately, and makes puddles, like the one her husband slipped on, on the landing between the first and second floor of the Winchester Place Apartments.