Pour la Petite Fleur

I am writing a new short story. I don’t know where it’s going right now. It’s about seventy-something-year-old lesbians, don’t ask me why I always write about old ladies who like old ladies. (It does nothing for me, if that’s what you’re thinking.) Anyway, right now there is no dialogue whatsoever. It’s weird. I just got up this morning and started writing and I dug it so I kept going and now I have Petra, recently widowed by an amazing man who she didn’t really love, and Agatha, who has spent the last decade or so all over France and Congo trying to replace Petra with adventures of zebras and soufflés and whatever else you’d find in Agatha’s life; I don’t know, I don’t even know if I have them meeting after lives apart at some point, I hope you realize I am simultaneously using this time to make fun of moi