“Sorry.” Her fingers grazed my back. I’d forgotten that feeling, like kittens climbing your spine and curling in your throat. Warm and matted and mewling. Disgusting, if you think about it. Who thinks about it at the time? Kittens in your throat. That’s gross.
I asked about her mother. She asked about the traffic. I told her my regrets. She pointed out a pigeon. She’s a mirror, not a bell. I watched her tail lights fade up the hill and waited for her empty voice on the phone. Remembered the coffee grounds and incense. Addicted to a wasteland.
Bet you’d never guess I was an emo teenager… (eye roll)
This post was written in response to this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Challenge! The photo prompt was provided by Yarnspinner.