Flash Fiction: The Grass
©Amanda Hakan
Blades of freshly-cut grass, already dry in the June heat, scratch at my bare shoulders. The bushes of bundled colors are laden with a clamor of chirps. And the sky is the kind of blue where you stare straight into the cloudless midday and close your eyes, with the color still tinting the backs of your lids.
Soon, the sounds and the hues and the feeling of the ground beneath all ebb away from my heavy form….
Hands form around a warm mug, emanating steam.… The steamy afternoon makes my back stick to the pleather booth…. Patent leather flats glide through the labyrinth of tables…. At my table you arrive, and you ask if everything is alright? Yes, more than alright. And I thank you by the name scrawled in black on the small rectangle pinned to your collar....
And those parched blades of grass, just trimmed yesterday, speak softly as they give way under bare feet, tugging me step-by-step from my reverie. As a slim shadow slips over me, I open my lethargic lids, gazing into the face of the one whose name is inked onto my chest.
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