Written 2018, March 05
She told him he should pick the flowers. He’d accepted the duty without a word. He likes the pink ones. Not pale, baby pink; lush pink, dark, like fire. Wild. She approaches from behind. They’re pink, she says. Yes. You can’t have pink, she says. Why not? Silence cuts the air between them. He wants to reach for her arm, cradle her elbow with the tips of his fingers. It’s been three weeks. She hasn’t even held his hand. She liked pink, he says. Pick something else, she says, and walks away.
Just published in Olentangy Review’s Spring 2018 issue: olentangyreview.com. Very happy to have this piece there.