Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

We nursed a low-grade bicker halfway up the hill, following the ruts that tires had plowed through mud the spring sun had since baked into a path. We laughed—to ourselves, at each other—pretended we were just playing because a whole weekend with three other couples was waiting up there for us.

    You kept walking when I stopped, kept talking, and I was about to follow without sharing my find but something made you turn your head and you walked back to me, silenced, and stared down where my eyes were fixed. I felt you share my wonder and delight, I felt you feel, in your held breath, the caterpillar's gait ripple through its bald green length and for a moment I believed anything was possible—even that I had been wrong about the gully between us,  a space that a moment before had been as obvious as the signs around us of the mountain spring: late afternoon sun, swift running creek, budding clover and poppies. We looked at each other and for once that was enough.

    A motor, shifting into second gear and climbing toward us, called my attention away. I bent to pick up a leaf and as you stepped up out of the groove you said What are you doing? and our disagreement rematerialized and you tried to disguise it and said, softly this time,  He'll be OK and I heard in your tone and saw in your eyes how you needed my accord so I stepped up beside you but looked down toward the approaching car.

    I couldn't tell you what kind of car it was or whether there was a mark left there in the dirt afterward but I remember how hot the sun was and how bright the day, how tight the turtleneck around my throat as I watched you shake your head and whisper I thought he'd make it.

    You took my hand and in that gesture I heard your contrition, heard it snap the last remaining thread that had tethered me to you.

Part of the Covers series

Comments

[J. M. Strother]

Very well written. Amazing how fragile the bonds that join us can become, and what provides that last bit of tension that cause them to snap. You captured that perfectly.
~jon

[Laura Eno]

Great story! You really showed how the final straw can be something minor yet part of a larger problem.

[2mara]

This is so very good. I can so relate here. It's amazing what can make or break a relationship (I'm glad it's not just me, and I'm not ENTIRELY mental)
~2

[danpowell]

A deeply resonant piece. I read this week that flash fiction is when you stare through a keyhole to see a moment in the room beyond. This certainly fits that description. Your first sentence is super too.

[Pippa Hennessy]

So few words yet so strong, I had to re-read a couple of times. I'm with Dan about the first sentence - 'We nursed a low-grade bicker...' - fabulous! This is almost prose poetry, every word does its job.

[AnasaziStories]

I like what Dan said about looking through the keyhole -- what you see is often a flash scene more than what I tend to think of as "fiction." And as such, as Pippa says, this becomes poetry. Maybe not in the language (though there's that in places, certainly the "nursed a low-grade bicker") as much as the way the scene holds and turns slowly like a gently throbbing marble in sunlight. In other words, lovely piece.