I've been having trouble finding the courage to post on this site, so I thought starting with pieces of writing inspired by the WitFit Prompts might be a good way to dip my feet in these waters. My pieces are written in the moment and are entirely my own work. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm flying this one solo, so any feedback is most welcome.
WitFit Word Prompts: compete, discrete, receipt
Always being the discreet girl, the good girl was tiring. She was the one who changed the topic of conversation when his eyebrows contracted and his index finger curled in towards his palm. She was the one who passed him a tissue under the table when just the slightest hint of blood began to pool in his nostrils. She was the one who held his head to her breasts when he thrashed in the night, unable to escape the demons that dogged his every step and she pretended not to notice when he looked at her with desire in his eyes, only for his body to disagree.
So when he forgot her birthday, she tried to let it go. She gathered up her belongings as usual and tiptoed from the apartment, ever conscious of his need for what little rest he could get. She waited for the train to work with all the other grey-morning commuters, standing straight and calm as always, being careful not to stick the ends of her handbag into anyone's thigh. She greeted the receptionist with the same friendly smile, the same shy wave, and didn't complain (verbally) when she found the coffee pot empty - again.
She didn't jostle to compete for her favourite chocolate in the latest box to appear on the receptionist's desk courtesy of another satisfied client. She didn't show her frustration when her boss lost his receipts for the month again and yet expected her to smooth out his expenses' claim with Accounts.
Yet all her patience, all her goodness couldn't prevent her from looking at her phone throughout the day, couldn't ease the hunger for that one person's words in a sea of greetings from those for whom she should have been grateful.
It didn't stop the tears from coming when she arrived home, cold and tired, to a dark apartment with dishes in the sink, cigarette butts on the sill and used towels strewn across the bathroom floor.
But when he found her curled up on the unmade sheets and climbed up behind her, when he whispered "happy birthday" in her ear and led her into the darkened kitchen where a home-made cake adorned with candles took up somewhat lop-sided pride of place on the counter, when he cradled her against his chest and told her that he loved her, then, this good girl was glad.