100-Word Microfiction V


He doesn’t know, can’t know, what riddles he’s leaving in his wake. The warm Bud Lights on the counter, muddy clothes on the bedroom floor. His wallet is here, glasses are here. The car, gone. They’ll wonder when they find it, and examine all its contents, but the car is old and has little to report. These objects can’t explain as he would: This was a regular day and I never make the bed, and I meant those beers for later, but then I forgot, and hey did you happen to find my Aquaman keychain, because that’s been gone forev—