Today we shall do continuations, four lines of prose at a time. So just pick things up from where the last person left them and go where you will for the next four sentences.
Max turned 15 months old today. I'm not sure how every single passing month manages to catch me utterly off guard, but they do.
The folder, thicker than a hamburger from my old man's grill, appeared on my desk ten minutes before end of shift on a sunny Friday afternoon. I could hear the weekend calling me, its breath already reeking of alcohol, as I stared at the handwritten pages spilling out of it.
I wanted to leave it until Monday, wanted to believe that it could wait.
But some part of me, barely audible above the laughter of leaving coworkers, knew different.