Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot
It was going to be epic.
He could hardly sleep. His feet itched. His toes tingled. His fingers yearned to move.
“Count sheep,” his girlfriend grumbled. His tossing and turning was keeping her up, too.
“I can’t,” he breathed into the nape of her neck. Smelling shampoo and a hint of laundry softener.
When dawn finally neared, he crawled out of bed, exhausted and exhilarated, both.
He checked the locks and clocks. He stretched. Warming up.
His dream was coming true. The details. Permits. Plans. It had felt insurmountable. Yet here was the final countdown for the City-wide Rooftop Dance.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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