She lies in bed, blankets pulled up tight.
Outside the full moon shines through her open window. She hears the neighbor’s mutt bark in the distance.
She checks her nightstand clock – ten ‘til midnight. He’ll be here soon.
On the far bedroom wall, a framed needlepoint pleads: “Bless this House.” A twisted smile forms on her lips. What a joke.
Floorboards groan. She hears footsteps in the hall. Slow and deliberate.
The door creaks open. She holds her breath as she tightens her grip on the letter opener in her left hand.
“Not tonight,” she whispers to herself.
“Not tonight.”
The Weekday One Hundred 