Saturday, 25 June 2016

MOTH BALLS - by Walburga Appleseed

Smoke escaped from the basement window. She knew her mother would be out in the garden, so Sue stretched upwards and creaked the window shut. Sweet velvet wisped and circled.
Tom coughed.
“You like it?” she asked.
He caught her leg and she tumbled onto the purple picnic blanket, their island on cold concrete ground. Surrounded by home-made conserves and cans of tomatoes, they giggled and drew on the weed, exhaling into each other’s open mouths. His fingers grew longer and longer, slimmer and slimmer; her body turned translucent, and their whispered words of love wound around their limbs and carried them into smoky dreams of each other.

Sue woke with a stiff neck, her naked bum sticky on the blanket.
Tom moaned in his sleep, and gave a contented snore. Sue felt his hand resting on her thigh, his naked body close to hers. She smelled moth balls.
She didn’t remember moth balls.
She remembered Mum’s tea party. She remembered pouring whisky into the teapot instead of tea. She remembered their conversation.
“I’ve never had weed,” he had said, his gaze intent, his fingers discreetly trailing her lower back. She remembered long slim sexy fingers.
“But I’d love to try.”
She didn’t remember moth balls.
She blinked the confusion out of her eyes, took his right hand, and stared at it.
Shrivelly, flaky old man’s fingers. The golden ring flashed.
Sue screamed and pushed Tom’s hand off her thigh. It clunked onto the concrete. Sue scrambled to her feet and gathered her clothes, billows of smoke bombarding her brain.
She forced herself to look down at her lover: a smoky smile curling around the lips of a grey-haired, waxen man; and long after escaping the basement room, his contented snore still coiled around her ears. 

First published in 2015 on Flash Fiction Magazine

1 comment:

  1. Ah, Walburga, you have lived a life, it seems. Thank you for sharing a nice journey.

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