Dick Bachman

Maybe Tomorrow, Maybe Not

Angela sat on the park bench next to the frozen lake. The breeze was picking up and stung her cheeks, and the tips of her ears. You could hear faint cracks coming from the ice occasionally if you sat long enough, it truly wasn’t winter anymore, and the ice was hanging on longer than usual this year. Any day now and it would be separating into sheets that got progressively smaller and just became floating chunks of ice, soon to disappear as if they never were there.