by Sara Crowley
She places a buttercup underneath his chin and watches the weed reflect its yellow glow. She leans closer, and inhales his clean, fresh scent. The sun is buttery too, mellow and low, casting shadows on the springy grass. “It’s all good,” she says, just to express it, the spread of happy, so rare. “Hmmm,” he replies, bored by her already, distractedly wondering what to put in the sandwich he is planning to go home and make. He has settled on tuna when she whispers her declaration of love.
Sara Crowley is (in no particular order) a mum, writer, daughter, bitch, sister, friend, bookseller, and wife. She has had stories published at Pulp.net and a couple of other online places. She has a blog, and appreciates you taking the time to read this.