sunday, a short short story

From my summer writing class, a short short story is not simply just a short story that’s shortened. It’s supposed to tell so much and yet not enough, end before it begins. It’s just supposed to work. In the world of fics, it’s like a drabble. My professor thought I did really well for a first attempt and that’s why I have the balls to post it here.

I figured that the lack of length will allow me to more easily write as a boy. My inspiration is not obvious at all. :P

Sunday brings a terrible agenda. I need to finish up a chemistry lab due the next day. Tend to my roommate, who returned hungover as usual. Mutter obscenities about the pointlessness of English classes at an engineering school. Answer a call from my manager asking me to work three shifts next weekend. Lift weights at the gym until I feel it.

She always leaves on Sunday mornings.

The window is sealed tightly, but I touch the plastic screen and the cold that somehow sifts through bites my palm. Then I lift up my shirt slightly to expose my stomach, the skin there even darker than the rest of me. I poke it. My abs are solid, solid enough that one day off from the gym won’t soften it. I won’t go today, then. The residual cold on my finger seeps into my belly. She loves the cold.

Her mother hates dark skin.

The door opens: she’s returned from the bathroom. Her face is alive and warm with perpetually flushed cheeks, pink lips. My eyes come to rest upon the soft skin of her neck and the darkened spot that mars it.

Catching me looking, “I told you not to,” she chides. Her scarf is flimsy, thin, far too sheer for a winter morning, but she knots it around her neck and it suffices to conceal the mark above her collarbone. I turn away and hide my smile. When she smells better than the most heavenly bakery in the world, how can I help myself?

She lies back down in my bed. The DVD from last night rests at her feet, our fourth horror movie in two weeks. I never watch that particular genre when I’m alone or even with friends. I like them only when we watch them together, because of how she squeaks and clutches at my t-shirt and buries her face into my chest when the sinister music escalates. Can she feel the rapid beating beneath the skin, I wonder. Can she see what she does to me when the previous five girls could do no such thing?

And yet, I can never see her mother. Because of that, this is impossible and directionless. Painful. Unless we both fall out at the same time, mutually decide on friendship, someday I must forget her too.

Would it be better if we hadn’t met that day?

“What are thinking of?” She is propped up on her elbows watching me. Waiting. She has the tip of her thumb in her mouth. It’s one of her many habits, absentmindedly biting fingers and bottom lips. Her bus comes in two hours.

I climb over her legs to rest beside her. Her scent rises from my pillow, a lingering reminder that she was ever with me. She won’t be here tonight, or the next night, or every night for the next week.

I respond, “Horror movies,” and hold her until it’s time to let her go.

I have a little over a week left until I move back into my college dorm. I should probably ask my new roommate when she’s coming back and if she can possibly help me. Her name’s Ley and she’s in my Japanese class. :D She’s ultra chill but is constantly doing homework. She’s, um, also a hardcore cosplayer.

Hauling everything to the 4th floor will be oodles of fun, I’m sure.

Until next time,

~ Mimi ;D

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