Flash Fiction

Stella

I peer at her from over my glass. Reclining, I watch her slink down to the floor from her lofty sunlit seat. She moves towards me with overwhelming determination. Every move demands my attention. In her walk, she shows me where she needs to be touched, her nonchalant gait hints at her level of energy. In a single-footed leap, she moves to a plush perch on the cushion next to me, outstretching her chin for a kiss. I extend my index finger and follow a soft line from mouth to neck to ear. She purrs. I listen, and make my own noise.

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I like to tell myself that he thought about saying it first, but it’s not true. I thought about it right away. I like to picture us on a sub-equator beach, collecting iridescent shells and placing them in opaque, summer-colored pales. Walking where the elastic lip of the ocean moistens the edge of the dry, grainy area, we spot a salmon pink shell, speckled with white. He moves quicker than I, but only to lift it off the ground hastily enough to give as a present. I take the thing and smile. I like to pretend he said it first.