This past week I’ve been digging through older bits of fiction I’ve written and posting a bit here and there to daylight some of my writing that has been otherwise becoming mushroom food. The older stuff isn’t always my best work. This one is from 2008.
For some reason, however — and I cannot put my finger on just why — this bit of flash fiction makes me unreasonably proud of what I wrote. Some place at the very end captures perfectly the moment I was trying to paint as far as I can recall. Of course, I’m willing to admit that it probably doesn’t deserve the pride I bestow on it, but let me have my little glory moment and not tell me how absolutely awful it is.
“This is the part when you tell me you love me,” she said as she leaned over the coffee table between us. I couldn’t help the lingering stare at the vast cleavage just barely hidden by a skin-tight, black, cotton tank-top she wore, but I suspected Julie wore the shirt explicitly to elicit such a reaction from me.
I leaned back into the overstuffed chair and sipped at my beer, unable to tear my eyes away from the pale flesh of her breasts.
“Is it really?” was my non-committal reply. “Hell, I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
“Bastard.” She threw herself back into the couch sitting opposite me, arms crossed against her chest, denying me the view I had enjoyed for an all-too-brief time just a few moments before. Her response was borne of frustration, not out of any spite. For as long as I could recall, Julie had been attempting to get me to say three words in a very specific order and had always met with a refusal on my part to satisfy her demands.