Monday, July 20, 2015

100 Words a Day 661

Rebecca’s hand slid smoothly across her brow, saturated as it was by sweat.

I want a popsicle; she thought.

Followed by: Too hot for moving.

She was trying to move as little as possible when the sound of a familiar bell drifted through the apartment window, popsicle guy!

She bolted upright, leaving behind a damp shadow on her bed, and donned her sandals.

Protected from the hot pavement, she flew down the stairs and raced to the sidewalk.

The man pushing the cart was short with suntanned skin.

Rebecca hurried over to him, and realized she had forgotten her wallet.

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