Always insisting, said I owed him that. He filled a room with hundreds of flowers. Vases, flush with roses and lilies and carnations, teetered on every surface, except the bed. We lay there, his head on my chest, hand on my hip. We’ll still be friends, I repeated, deaf to the hiss and crack of a crevasse forming. We wouldn’t be. Candles extended the flower’s claw-like shadows across the ceiling, reaching, grasping, smothering. Too-sweet scent shrouded bare limbs. I can hear your heartbeat, he said. What’s it saying, I asked. I don’t know, he said, it’s in braille. It’s blind.
Amethyst
Loscocco writes both fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared or
is upcoming in The Pinch, Catamaran Literary Reader, Hexagon Speculative
Magazine, and elsewhere. She was a finalist for the 2024 Page Prize in
Creative Nonfiction. She has an MA in Science Writing from Johns Hopkins
University. She grew up on a farm near Truth or Consequences, New
Mexico, and now lives in Oakland, California. Find her online at
http://amethystloscocco.com and @amethystwrites on social media.
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