Randomly pick 10 words from the dictionary and write a scene with them.
Finally, after seven months of relying on the company of others, Laura decided she would spend an entire evening alone. The decision was strategic: she could take no more of her friends’ well-intentioned but snide remarks about how it’s time to jump back on the horse. She did not want to be a geographer of other men’s bodies. She only wanted distractions, something, anything, that would disable the bottomless inkwell of memories she couldn’t stop herself from dipping into. She opened the refrigerator and began to poke and prod at its measly contents, the compact boxes of half-eaten leftovers from restaurants, the untouched bottle of Chardonnay. Then she saw them hidden in the back corner of the shelf: heirloom tomatoes, still on the vine. She pulled them out and carried them to the sink, where she turned the faucet, rinsed them, then put them in a bowl. She studied them. Little beads of water were resting on their silky surface, unsteadily, poised to roll off at any moment; they were glistening. Her eyes welled up as she reached for the phone.