by R.S. Bohn
Although I shower daily and forego moisturizer, there are spots on my chest. I decide I cannot wear the plum dress on Friday, due to its plunging neckline. I am distraught – I had planned on wearing this dress for weeks, its hue and cut and texture and neckline, especially its neckline, all designed to show me to best advantage. I curse the devil for giving me cleavage acne and choose, last minute, to wear a burgundy shantung silk sheath, though shantung is ten years out of fashion and I am fifteen years older than he and I feel time gripping me and yanking me through the bottleneck, towards Hades and oblivion. But when I step onto the famed parquet of the Queensbury, a familiar voice whispers into my ear from behind, “You have the most elegant shoulders I have ever seen,” and I am pulled back up by a finger trailing from left to right. Oblivion can wait; we sway all that long, warm spring evening, perfectly in sync.
R.S. Bohn writes flash fic that is often without flash (and is sometimes not even fiction) in a suburb outside of Detroit. She rambles, reviews and rides solo over here.