Sails

Every night as I'm heading toward bed I think, I'm too tired to write, and every night as I pull back the covers I think, but if I don't write Bob won't respect me in the morning. So I write. As you can probably tell, I haven't been particularly inspired by what I'm asked to do in the writing prompts, but I'm doing it. Sometimes I'm not liking it, but I'm doing it.

The ship's sail hung from the mast like dirty laundry. The canvas was once white I'm sure but years of salt water and rough weather and casual handling showed. It was gray and stained, patched and frayed. The whole thing--ship and sail--looked like it was less than a week away from being sold for scrap. Max, on the other hand, disagreed. I could tell. Not that he said anything, no. In fact I could see he was determined not to say much in front of the old pirate trying to sell the Martha H. to us. "So, where was her keel laid?" I asked, more to distract Salvador than out of any real interest. I saw the tremble in Max's fingers as he caressed the peeling varnish on the teak decking and cradled the chipped and splintered wheel as if it were his beloved's breasts.

Might have possibilities.
--Barbara