Her Skin. (Flash Fiction)

 

 

How extraordinary that I should think of her now. Ten years since I saw those brown eyes, ten years since goodbye and yet for some reason I think of her today. I am waiting at lights.

Green, I drive through the intersection. On my left I catch sight of a blue coat. She wore one just like that when we met in the cafe. She wouldn’t come to the house, too personal she said.

I change down for the climb towards home, sun dropping behind the factories in my rear view and in the windscreen my face becomes her. I see the line of her fine neck, a light silver chain. Her chin and jaw line defined in the reflection of the dying day. Her hair falling about her heart shaped face.

Grace in all her exceptional beauty and those eyes brown with a hint of gold search my face from its own reflection. I feel her skin then warm and smooth but not on my hands, rather in them. I am for a moment, in the dying day, Grace Winters.

I stretch my shoulders and see her in reflection do the same. I hear her voice from my mouth, whisper her name. “Grace” I look again into brown and gold. Her neck so delicate and fine and I remember.

I pull the car under the port.

Lights are on in the house. I sit for a moment in the heavy shade, reflections now stronger, her face perfect. Around her the Formica tables and chairs of the café, gone now, long demolished.

Those eyes.

Then I see her with the brick of the alley behind her. My hands which are now hers about the slimness of neck. Beyond the reflection, the sea foaming on the golden shore and the trees of the garden hula in the evening breeze. My mind registers nothing as I struggle for breath. I see her mouth curve into a smile. Her eyes, brown with flecks of gold, cold now, I never noticed that before. Breath is all but gone. I see her face dissolve, replaced in that last instant by my own dying image.

 

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

 

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