flash fiction

I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.

He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.

Jenna says that he typically goes for redheads, so I run to Target and buy a box of hair dye.

You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.

I know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.

A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”

I’d never heard of anyone having a second baby right after the first one, but everything was so strange in those early days of motherhood that I just acted on instinct.

None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.

On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.

I reached for my invoice, which Dr. George, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a soiled diaper, dropped into my hand.

Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.

At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.