1839

by Eli Ransom

He stood in the parlor, hat clutched awkwardly in both hands, rehearsing his words one last time. Mary entered, curious and composed, catching him mid-mumble. “Miss Todd,” he said, voice quivering like a fence rail in the wind, “would you... perhaps... join me for a walk tomorrow?” She blinked once, then twice. “Only if you promise not to wear that coat,” she said. He laughed, the kind of laugh that surprises even the laugher.

6S

Eli Ransom writes flash fiction with a soft spot for presidents and parlor rooms.