Terri’s bare knee touched cold linoleum. The distinct aroma of disinfectant, liberally applied over thirty years, was strong in this corner. She fumbled with the cord and wrinkled her nose.
“Is this no other way?” she asked.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Terri yanked, but the plug and outlet refused to end their embrace. She wiggled and pulled until she broke the bond. The whirring compressor grew silent. The familiar vibration faded in Terri’s heart along with memories of late-night bottles, birthday cakes, spilled milk, and Sunday dinners.
“You’ll love the new fridge. It pairs with your phone. There’s an app.”
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer