A Seattle writers group offered simple guidelines to the Las Vegas InterNations membership – write 250 words or less using the phrase “look over my shoulder”.
One fist under the pillow, the other clutching the sheet above her head, Elle was not a member of the impartial mothers’ club as she clearly preferred the micro-massage of her Terrier Chihuahua’s paws along her back to the forced intimacy of the 60-lb Vizslador. She sighed knowing that working remotely as a member of the faculty and being a single mother to a preschooler within spitting distance of retirement barely qualified as first-world problems. To her mind, they were problems nonetheless. Yet even the passing Christian that she was knew enough to be grateful for another day above ground, global pandemic notwithstanding.
Casting caution and fur babies to the wind, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and made a mental note to unlock the gate for pest control. Breakfast would be a no-brainer. She’d made her first cheesecake in the Instant Pot the night before and given The Boss’s sugar addiction, would have no problem selling the idea. The day was already showing promise. The Boss was still asleep. She had time to nuke some turkey bacon but remembered she’d made the last batch two days earlier. She’d add it to her digital shopping cart. Opening the door, she heard something in the gravel but saw no commercial truck in the driveway. Do I go in and wake a sleeping child or do I continue toward the noise? With a look over her shoulder, she took a deep breath and closed the door.
