Ready

"I'm ready ... as ready as I'll ever be," she'd whispered, writing quickly (for less than a minute), refusing to add more or say less. Pressing "Submit" before her ego exploded and started screaming. "Done. It's done. Now, we day drink," she giggled to herself in the kitchen, pouring almost two whole drops of Kahlua into her second cup of coffee for the day. "Nothing will happen and you never have to tell a soul." "You never have to tell a soul," he'd whispered, clicking the link he'd sworn to never click, "and, if anyone finds out, you can throw yourself off of the nearest cliff." There, about halfway down on the page, he saw it: "Morticia's hair is beset with icy silver strands, but still she waits in the greenhouse among the ruin of roses for her Gomez to arrive". His breath caught, staring at the words in disbelief and wonder, the air heavy with a kind of magic he had written off long ago.