From Before
A Flash Fiction Story
How do you spell it? That jagged, tired word. He doesn’t stop to think like I do.
A jar of street trash and two boxes of purple blouses, he says. “Oh, and this.”
He holds out a hat box. The lid is secured with white satin ribbon, dusty and dulled. He says it was in our closet behind an old projector and some CDs.
The box feels like a petal.
I tell him he doesn’t understand. It’s not street trash. It’s my treasure. Semantics had always been a sticking point.
“How could I forget?” He smirks.
I ask if that’s everything.
It is.
His shoes scuff the garage floor as he leaves, but then he stops and turns around, mid-driveway. I can almost imagine him smiling, I love you. But he doesn’t. “We need to get a new title for the car.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
Do you want the watering can with the daffodils?
No.
The weighted blanket in the guest room?
Bring that when we deal with the car.
You always loved the swing in the sunroom.
Keep it.
