I was at a writing training recently where we talked about Slice of Life and we wrote one after viewing a photo. Here is a fictional piece that I wrote that day:
The Mayor's Wife
My red dress is freshly-pressed, hanging on my full-length mirror. The curls in my hair sit tightly at the back of my neck. Shiny and lacquered red, my fingernails hide the beads of sweat tucked into my fisted palms. The ridiculously high heels sit on the floor, not quite broken in yet, but just new enough to blister up my feet today. I have retouched my make-up about three times and without realizing it, I find myself pacing now. On the outside, when I see my reflection, I think to myself that I look the part. Almost sophisticated enough to be the First Lady of a grand cosmopolitan city, with no resemblance to the small-town girl I grew up as. But on the inside, my stomach is twisted up in knots.
He, on the other hand, looks as peaceful as can be. Like this is not the day that he is going to be presented to the whole city as mayor for the first time, after miraculously winning what was supposed to be a one-man show at the election. For the other guy.
He sits in his armchair, hidden behind his newspaper, coffee mug in hand, with his feet swinging rhythmically in the air to the jazz music playing in the background. His morning routine. A daily ritual to center himself for the day. This morning is no different to him. It is just another day in what used to be our ordinary lives.