He called it a break. My friends called it being single. They also called it “He’s an asshole.” I called it the thing that lives with me, has sex with me, but never kisses or says it loves me back. The thing that ensured that I kept a bottle of wine on the rack for no more than a day. The thing made me lie, telling a dozen young men that I had plans each day they wanted to go to lunch for a year. The thing that made me stop eating, not because I wanted to but because nothing tasted good anymore. The thing that smelled like whiskey sometimes or had white powder in its nose. The thing that saw me as an object to be controlled, an animal on a leash. The thing that made me see myself that way. The thing I waited a year for and never kicked out.
Category Archives: Micro Fiction
The woman stood alone in the dim yellow lamplight of a graveyard, large flakes illuminated and covering her footsteps. She’d always loved snow, the way sound became muffled when it fell thick over everything. She’d liked the way it made everything match- the crisp whiteness of tree branches and hedges. How everything blended in with the ivory lamb and its fresh engraving over the bed of her stillborn child. Like the thin sheets of paper covering her kitchen table marked with the word “Divorce.”
Maureen likes her coffee black but adds cream until she can’t see her reflection.
Hungry for the world, she collapsed to the floor when she realized her jeans, made in Indonesia, had traveled farther than she ever would.
Donald does not like meatloaf. He recalls the bland flavor that polluted his palate the night before as he plops a brown, overcooked bit into a container for lunch. The ketchup bottle splats his yellow shirt as he tries to coat the charcoaled chunk. It’s his fault, really, that he’ll be eating it. He always tells his wife it’s delicious, and she always makes him extra. He can hear her breathing in the bedroom as he thinks to himself how tired he is. Of meatloaf. Of meetings. Of marriage.
I set the shower head down and rub generic green shampoo across my son’s freckled chest and down his arms before rinsing again. He giggles and blows bubbles with the soap in his mouth.
My dad used to give me showers like this, only we had a special soap that smelled like watermelon. He would lather it up in my hair and spike it like a rockstar’s. When dad lathered the soap like that the whole bathroom would fill with bubbles, floating like weightless pearls.
Five Year Anniversary
She drags her cigarette slowly, delaying.
“You’ve been drinking a lot,” she says.