The Number One Restaurant in Orbit!

Linda lifted her glass too quickly, and the wine sloshed into the air in a slow, winding stream. Tiny purple-red globules scattered as she moved the cup to catch the descending column.

"You're upset," said Raymond.

"No, no," Linda said. She attempted to sip the wine.

"I thought it would be romantic."

"It *is* romantic," said Linda. "Up here, among the stars... it's... it's a lovely idea."

Raymond stabbed at his plate. A round meatball shot away from his fork like a comet, trailing a tomato-sauce tail.

Linda slurped at her wine. "Perhaps something other than Italian next time, though."

Prompt: Three Blue Shoes

From a prompt by my excessively introverted spouse. (Just so you all can see how seriously I take my made-up-on-the-spot rules.)

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There were three shoes by the front door. Weston’s sneakers, and one darker blue one that looked like a slip-on. Dressy. Too thin for his foot.


At the IHOP, they gave him a stack of five pancakes. He’d ordered three. He couldn’t make the waitress understand what he was asking. He left half on the plate.

That night, his bed was up to a queen-size from a twin. After a resigned look to see if the sheets had similarly expanded, he climbed in and tried not to worry about it.

He woke up the next morning beside her, and smiled.