By David Gershan

Daylight spiked through the canopy, casting a spectral pallor over the forest floor. Just a little longer, almost at the car, she told herself, her heavy breath misting in the December air, her thighs screaming at her to stop. But, now reduced to the sole instinct of survival, she had to keep running. The cold tore into her lungs, seeped into her joints, bit into her tendons, but she could not let it slow her. The track dogs were closing in, their noses up, catching her scent through the maze of pines and shadows. She knew that, if captured, her pursuers would not let her live. She knew they would torture her, and she could only pray she would die before breaking. 

Her heart thrashed to feed her muscles with oxygenated blood while her mind bred images of her pending demise. She saw herself tied to a birch tree, naked, desecrated; she pictured her decaying body beneath the soil and leaves, for the earth had thawed enough to dig a shallow grave; she imagined a search party discovering nothing but her skeleton, her cratered skull revealing the blunt force trauma that finally ended it.  

Breathe, breathe. Don’t panic. The car is right up ahead. She remembered the narrow gulch and hill leading up to the county road. Just off the shoulder, under a decrepit billboard advertising a steakhouse, the silver Forte would be waiting for her. But if she didn’t make it, she told herself, she would go down fighting, striking out in a frenzy, rage oozing out of her like hot oil while she inflicted indiscriminate damage. Overcome by their numbers and overwhelmed by agony wrought by their sadism, she would accept her fate. But she would never talk, never let them win. And in her dying moments she would look up and curse god for this grotesque mockery of a life, for leaving her two-year-old son to fend for himself. He was the sole reason to keep on. If she didn’t make it out, he’d be left an orphan. He’d learn about me but wouldn’t remember me, would just have pictures, and I’d always feel like a stranger to him. He’d never know how much he was loved. 

A twig snapped under her feet, puncturing her silent glide.  She glanced behind her, scanning for canines. Her periphery caught the widening patch of blood on her sock. The heel tab of her shoe had been gnawing away at her right Achilles with every stride. Maybe this is where the first hound would clamp down. Then her calf spasmed, warning of a possible cramp. Not now, please not now. She imagined puncturing it to let out the lactic acid.

A renewed hope surged forth when she saw the stream ahead. So close. I’m going to make it. She unzipped her pocket and pulled out her car keys, gripping them with a forefinger looped through the key chain. She leapt over the water, crested the hill, and broke through the tree line. She turned north toward the billboard and her car, a glittering speck in the distance. But she was visible now and would have to run parallel to the forest, and she knew gunfire could spray her from behind at any moment. One last burst of adrenaline and she was flying on the pavement. Just a few more seconds… Three, two, one. 

Her body all but gave out when she reached her life-saving Forte. It was right where she left it, glinting in the sun like a holy opaline light. She was safe now. They didn’t catch me. I’m going to live. She stopped her watch: 1 hour, 23 minutes, 44 seconds – a new personal best for the ten-mile trail. She clasped her hands behind her head and walked around the car, catching her haggard reflection in a side mirror. Then she proceeded to stretch her calves, one at a time while using the hood of the car for support. She re-bandaged the wound on her Achilles and sat down, resting against a tire. As she sipped from her water bottle she thought about her training, torpor taking hold. The marathon was just seven weeks away, and tomorrow was this week’s long run – her first attempt at 20 miles. She knew that such a distance would be a fierce trial of endurance, a true test of her will. And it would require her to conceive an even more terrible circumstance, a somehow crueler nightmare, from which to escape. 

*    *    *

When not grinding away at his day job as a psychologist, David can be found spending time with his wife and son and indulging in creative writing. He has published short fiction and poetry in various literary magazines over the years. 

 

By Monica Davis

There are consequences for every choice, she thought. This line outside this seedy grab ‘n go that she had been forced to join, case in point. Had she gone to bed at a decent hour, she would have been well-rested before she took to the road at the crack of dawn this morning.

Instead, she had stumbled out of bed, her eyes at half-mast, fumbled into her clothes, and headed out. No breakfast and morning traffic finally caught up with her in some little town in the middle of nowhere. She could feel her blood sugar dipping. No, she thought, this isn’t a dip, I’m crashing.

The line appeared to consist of characters from Deliverance. The man ahead of her in the line was tall, big, and stinky, and by the look of the long beard covering his chest, an advocate of nicotine. Big man needed a big meal, and big man was deaf; he kept asking the cashier to repeat herself. She wanted, no, desperately needed a donut, maybe two. 

“Please, please, hurry up,” she pleaded under her breath.

He must have heard her because he reached back and pulled a wallet from his back pocket. It was attached to his belt with a chain that was hung with little ducks. Her vision began to narrow and the ducks blurred into tiny little donuts.  That is what I need she thought and reached out a hand to take one as the man responded to the cashier’s question, and grunted, “Yeah, I want dip with that.” He turned and a huge wad of tobacco and juice shot from his mouth and landed at her feet.

Dip, she thought, as she started to fall. I’m dipping. Please don’t let me dip into his dip. And she was gone.

*    *   *

Active in theatre and film and television since her youth, Monica has also worked as a reporter and theatre critic; her poetry has been featured in DarkWinter Literary Magazine and in the Sunshine Coast Writers and Editors Society’s (SCWES) online/print magazine, Not An Island and their 2023 and 2024 Art & Words Festival Anthology.

By Barbara Borst

Charlotte propped the announcement of her 10^th college reunion up on her bureau. She had signed up a month earlier, so the reminder was to think about what to pack. That was hard to do between bouts of crying over the collapse of her marriage to her college sweetheart and of raging against his infidelity.

But it was important. It was part of her plan to put her life back together or build a new one. She needed to dazzle at the reunion and to see if any of her old beaus were available. Which distracted her with thinking back through her epic sex adventures as a student and the many men who had had their eyes on her.

And the one who no longer did.

Revenge dressing. Not that he would be there, since he had been a graduate student. But she still looked good, and she knew it and she needed it.

Or did she? Did she look good? Did she need it? Wasn’t that flare, that quest for the show-off partner what had gotten her into this problem in the first place?

Put that thought back in the closet while getting out the slinky turquoise dress with the plunging back.

                                                                     * 

“Charlie! So good to see you.”

Charlotte turned around. There was her former roommate Jenny calling out to her from the line of people registering at the reunion. 

Jenny darted forward, arms outstretched to hug her. 

Charlotte returned the hug, bumping up against Jenny’s round belly. “Great to see you, too,” she said, realizing she hadn’t thought about the women who might be at this event. Only the men.

Jenny asked whether Dan was coming. Charlotte said simply that he couldn’t make it. She wasn’t ready to broadcast the end of their marriage. 

“Then you should room with me. Bill didn’t come. He said I should enjoy a girls’ weekend – last chance before the baby comes.”

Charlotte realized it would be rude to say no. So now she was boxed in. Forced to think about the baby she wasn’t having.

                                                                       * 

Charlotte and Jenny headed to the cocktail reception under an enormous white tent, Jenny in a loose black dress and Charlotte in her turquoise stunner, both with name tags clipped to their shoulder straps. Jenny stopped to talk with an old friend. 

Charlotte wended her way through the crowd at the bar, on the lookout for former lovers. As she leaned over to order a drink, she caught the eye of a man she had once dated. One after another, the men she had known gave her an admiring head-to-toe look, clinked plastic glasses, then belatedly remembered to introduce her to their wives, some pregnant and some holding babies. 

She ended up sharing a table for ten with an old flame and his fiancée and his former roommates and their wives. The crowd was loud already, so shouting a few pleasantries at people she hardly knew was enough.

As dessert was being served, she got ready to leave. But the sound of the band warming up inspired her to stay. The musicians began to pound out the dance numbers from her class’s years in college. Too many memories. Couples started to crowd the floor. She slithered among them, swinging her long dark hair to the beat, shaking her hips, freeing herself from thought. Just on the move. Swirling wildly across the dance floor, she barely avoided crashing into people.

                                                                    * 

Breakfast was lavish, but Charlotte sat alone nursing a cup of coffee at a table far from the crowd.

“May I join you?”

She looked up. Marcus. She smiled and pulled out a chair for him.

“I saw you last night,” he started, “but it looked like you were working something out on the dance floor.”

She laughed. “You always understood me best,” she said. “How good to see you. How are you?”

“Well, really well. And you?”

“Not good at all, as you guessed.”

“If you want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

Charlotte wondered why it had been so long since they had been in touch. He was such a dear friend in college, the one who helped her pick up the pieces after one wild romance or another. 

“You first?” she asked.

“Well, I’m getting married.”

“Who is the lucky one?” She knew he was gay but didn’t want to say it aloud as he had always been very private.

“Stanley. You’ll have to come meet him. I’ll send you an invitation.”

“I’m so happy for you,” she said, beaming, though she was holding back tears. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

He gave her time until she was ready to talk.

After a long wait, she said, “I’m getting unmarried.”

“How did that happen?” he asked gently.

“Not my idea. I kept telling Dan that I wanted to have a baby, and he kept saying it was too soon and that we needed to advance in our careers more, and blah, blah, blah.”

“And that was it?”

“No, just the start. Turns out he was having an affair with a woman at work. Got her pregnant and chose to dump me.”
“Oh my God.” He reached across the table to stroke her hand.

“Like some half-assed soap opera.”

“You know, I never thought of him as good enough for you.”

“That’s sweet of you to come to my defense. You didn’t say it when we were in college, but I could tell you weren’t keen on him.”

“But you were, so I held my tongue.”

“Wish I’d taken the hint.” But the sex was great, she remembered. She had been enthralled.

They sat for a few minutes. 

“What do you think is next?” he asked.

She paused to try to answer that. “I don’t know,” she said, “but I don’t want to be a single mother or to wait until I’m too old to have a baby.”

He listened and waited.

“You see through the facades,” she said. “If I ever date again, I’ll want your advice.”

Tables around them began to fill, ending their conversation.

                                                                    * 

Charlotte strolled through some of the buildings that were open during the reunion, remembering much happier times – with Dan, with others – and wiping stray tears with the back of her hand. She could hear someone down a long hallway playing the piano. Drawn to the music, she heard the pianist play the signature notes of “Lara’s Theme.” It could be Marcus, she thought as the music drew her onward. They had watched the movie together more than once.

At the open door of the practice room, she stood silently until he finished.

“I always loved that one,” she said. 

He turned as if he had expected her arrival.

“But I thought I would be the beloved, not the betrayed,” she added.

He motioned for her to sit beside him on the piano bench as he played it again.

When he finished, they paused to let the music sink in. Then she asked him to tell her more about Stanley. Marcus showed her a picture of his beloved and told her how they had met – on a singles cruise – and their wedding date and plans.

“You have to come,” he said. 

“Are you sure? I’ve been so out of touch.”

“You’re the only college friend I would invite.” 

She thought about what it meant that he had stayed out of the loud gay party scene on campus. He was so private. Theirs was a friendship of opposites.

“I’ll be there for you,” she said.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Most of my family won’t come.”

“I’m sorry,” she offered.

“It’s OK,” he said. “I expected it.” 

After a pause he added. “My favorite cousin is coming. I’ll introduce you. He might be just the right man for you.”

                                                               *   *   *

Barbara Borst teaches international affairs and journalism at New York University. Previously, she was an editor at The Associated Press. While based in Nairobi, Johannesburg, Paris and Toronto, she wrote for Newsday, The Boston Globe, The Dallas Morning News, the Los Angeles Times, Inter Press Service news agency, and others. Prior to living abroad, she reported for The Denver Post and the Clarion-Ledger of Jackson, MS.

 

 

By Neil Weiner

Antonio had lost his job and his girlfriend, who dumped him with the familiar refrain: uncommunicative and passionless. 

Seeing his first unemployment check, Antonio’s mouth fell agape. The amount was twice what he had expected from his menial job. According to the letter, he was a programmer for Apple. Apparently, someone had stolen his identity. 

Checking his old email account, he discovered an ongoing intense online romance with the attractive, intelligent Celia. For weeks he studied the affectionate wording. Then he expressed his enthusiastic interest in her. Upon meeting him, Celia fell in love with the sensitive, ambitious programmer.

                                                        *      *      *

As a professional psychologist, Dr. Weiner has worked for over 40 years specializing in couples and relationship groups. He has many insights on how connections develop. He has published a variety of related articles and five books. Dr. Weiner is featured in a monthly advice column, AskDrNeil, in a Portland Newspaper.

By Donal Hughes

My parents never said it, not to each other, not to any of us, their nine children. We never said it either – show don’t tell. But they showed it every day. The small things: a smile that said it all, Sunday dinners, ice cream in summer, a week in my uncle’s caravan by the seaside every year, always in two batches because of the cows. Christmas and Santa, the highlight of the year. And the big things: piano lessons, books, education, money when money was tight. 

I tried to tell him on his deathbed, but the word wouldn’t come. It would have been incongruous somehow. Or so I thought. I knew I would never see him alive again. And so, I took the plane back across the pond to America, only to return a month later for the funeral. But the word never left my mind, wouldn’t leave, boring through my brain like a mole.

And then, as the dirt was being shoveled over his coffin, my mother and sisters inconsolable, I glanced over at my five brothers, upright and stoic in their ill-fitting dark suits and sports jackets. And I wanted to scream it out, at the top of my voice – I love you, Daddy.

Then, hands shaken, condolences given, relatives, friends, neighbours. And afterwards, the meal. Quiet conversation, reminiscences, subdued laughter at some humorous anecdote or other, like the time he lost his balance with the wheelbarrow and fell into the pile of cow dung. 

Then the leaving, goodbyes and hugs all around. “I’ll try to get back next year,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.

And out of the blue my little niece burst into tears, grabbed my hand and said, “I love you Uncle Frankie.” 

And there it was.

*   *   *

Donal Hughes, a retired construction worker/builder, grew up on a small farm in Ireland. 

He is a keen photographer but took up writing during Covid because “you didn’t have to leave your house, and all you need is a pen and a sheet of paper.” He has written several short stories, which he describes as “drafts”. This is his first flash piece.

For the past 33 years, he has lived with his wife in that village of “broad lawns and narrow minds” at the western edge of Chicago.

By Kris Faatz

Time is like a book’s pages. Most people don’t know you can flip back and forth whenever you want. You can’t teach someone how to do it: either you know, or you don’t.

A while ago, I flipped the pages back. Took myself to the time before I lost my treasure.

Here in Other-when, I watch Other-me. She and her husband laugh lots. She sashays around the kitchen, cupping her hands under her big belly. Her husband holds her and they sway together, feeling the future quicken between them, that heartbeat-glimmer in the dark.

I want to tell her, sit down. To say, don’t count your chickens. She wouldn’t hear. 

If I flip forward again, I’ll see her belly slack, full of ache. But in Real-when, my husband sits in our empty kitchen. I shut my ears and still hear him calling.

                                                                      *   *   *

Kris Faatz’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including Atticus Review and Rappahannock Review, and most recently was longlisted for Wigleaf’s Top 50 2024 stories. The American edition of her second novel, Fourteen Stones, was released in June 2024 by Highlander Press. Her third novel, Line Magic, was shortlisted for the Santa Fe Writers Project’s 2023 Literary Awards and is forthcoming from Highlander Press in 2025. Visit her online at krisfaatz.com. 

 

By Patrick Joseph Caoile

I was reminded of my father at the coffee shop the other day. Three old Filipino men gathered around a table next to mine, taking turns to talk and sip from paper cups. I imagined it would have been liquor had they been in the homeland, like how my uncles offered me a plastic cup of rum when I was twelve years old. “Don’t tell Mama,” my father said, allowing me the single shot before shooing me back into the tin-can shanty. My father sat outside with his brothers, not minding the mosquitoes swirling around their heads. They were roasting a pig on a spit, embers blistering against its skin, a greasy caramel brown. They drank like men at war, exchanging stories of childhood and then of their adult lives. My father had missed much in between, when he moved with his wife and child to a country not their own. He had missed his brothers.

At the cafe, the three old men looked like them, sipping cups of coffee that emboldened them, a picturesque tableau of a memory halfway around the world. “Pare!” The three men jostled each other around the coffee table laughing, “I swear it happened!” One of their longwinded stories had finally reached its punchline. One of them even resembled my father — a rotund man with beefy arms shaped by decades of farm work and a stomach swollen by beer. His porous, sunbaked face was as hardened as the land he had toiled. His caffeine-shot leg stirred the air beneath the table.

When we left the Philippines for suburban New Jersey, my farmer-father came with us. If he couldn’t work the land with his own hands, he put his labor into the house. A small backyard garden, the laundry, the cooking, the dishes. When the toilet wouldn’t flush, he argued with my mother about calling a plumber: “Ako na! I’ll do it myself!” When the old coffeemaker had brewed its last cup, he showed me how to make poor man’s coffee out of rice. “A farmer works for every grain,” he reminded me. “Not one grain wasted.” In a skillet, he toasted spoonfuls of rice, then steeped the darkened grains in warm water. A few minutes later, he drained the liquid into a cup. He let me take the first sip — my eyes widened, mesmerized by the curious concoction. But my childish excitement quickly turned sour. “This tastes like dirt!” I spewed. My father drank the rest. It was enough to last him for the day.

And yet I’ve since grown to love coffee, the only acceptable adult drug consumed in broad daylight, in plain sight. Black and bitter, closer to the earth. It keeps me awake and away from the dreams that make others lost boys — perhaps my father was one of them; America had been his Neverland. But when I found myself in a coffee shop in the company of three old Filipino men, I was reminded of him and where he came from. I thought of the farmer harvesting coffee in the homeland, the beans exported elsewhere and enjoyed by someone else. Light, medium, or dark roast, like my father’s changing complexion alongside the seasons, because a farmer’s tan doesn’t last forever. Then I was reminded of myself, the farmer’s son, who never learned how to tame the carabao. As those old men finished their drinks and left with arms around each other’s shoulders, I thought of how memory, like coffee, stains us all.

 *   *   *

Patrick Joseph Caoile was born in the Philippines and grew up in northern New Jersey. His work is featured in storySouth, Porter House Review, the anthology Growing Up Filipino 3, and elsewhere. He has received support from Roots.Wounds.Words and the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. He holds a BA in English from Saint Peter’s University, MA in English from Seton Hall University, and PhD in English with a creative writing concentration from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Currently, he is a Visiting Assistant Professor of Literature and Creative Writing at Hamilton College.

By Ruth Ticktin

The day started in tranquility. Returning from the trail back onto the walking path, a vaguely familiar woman stopped and whispered. 

“Quite outstanding, isn’t it? Lovely sunrise.”

Trish managed a nod in response as they passed on the biking/walking path. She couldn’t explain that today’s sunrise was more of the cloudy kind with streaks of white puffy streamers going all the way from the sea to the clouds. Some folks might see a biblical scene in the sky, though the clouds weren’t special to Trish. The poofs covering the dramatic rise-up of the sun did create a nostalgia. Trish longed for clear winter days alone to view the sea sky sun. Staring, she would devour the early morning miracle without natural or human distraction.

Pausing, she looked out to the water’s edge, no low tides or seabed visible. Searching cloud lines in the sky, there was a parting of the poofy body shapes like in the Red Sea story. An artist seeing a similar view must’ve thought “Ah-ha that’s how the crossing took place.” Trish knew that painting and this scene. Waters flowing on the sea, winds blowing in the sky and clouds refusing to part for the sun. Will low tides ever dry up mid-sea again, allowing a successful crossing like in the Bible story? She wondered about the confluence and timing of elements. Imagine refugees planning a safe crossing of the Big River to coincide with a full moon in the sky and a low tide on the water. 

From behind, wheels bouncing on concrete came louder and closer. Erasing her visions of the sky parting, Trish turned to a boy skateboarding on the other side of the path. Putting aside the noise, she exhaled, heartened by the skateboarder’s purpose. He was out early, exercising and soaking in the sea sky sun close to home. 

In the weeks before her fall, Trish used to walk peacefully every morning, aware and in awe of the striking triad below, around, above and beyond.

Heartened by her road to recovery and the perfect timing, Trish grinned and told the boy who was not listening.

“My daughter is coming home for a visit soon. At least for a few days, I’ll have someone to cook for and talk to. I’ll be Mom again.”

*   *   *

Writing and teaching, Ruth Ticktin encourages sharing stories. She’s author: Around & Around Poetry Chapbook (BottlecapPress 2024;) Was Am Going, Recollections—Poetry & Flash (NewBayBooks 2022;) co-editor: Psalms (PoeticaPublishing 2020;) co-author: What’s Ahead? (Pro Lingua Learning 2013;) contributor: MD Bards, Gathering 2023, 2024 (LocalGemPress;) Straylight 10/23; PressPausePress 6. More— https://rticktindc.wixsite.com/ruth

By Edna Schneider

The phone rings. I rush to answer, longing to hear my daughter’s sweet voice. When she left for college, it felt like standing on an ocean pier sending her off to the new world. My finger, sticky from eating a cinnamon bun, presses the green button on the iPhone. I hear a heavy, raspy exhalation.

“This is Detective Anderson. There’s been an incident at the university. We need you to come to Arizona immediately.”  

The phone hits the table. My legs give out, and I collapse to the floor, on the verge of vomiting. As much as I wish I hadn’t answered the phone, I lift the receiver; it’s as heavy as a 20-pound dumbbell.

 I scream. “What happened?” 

“On the way back to your daughter’s dorm, her roommate’s boyfriend waited in the woods with a gun.”  

“Please, please don’t say another word.” 

My daughter had told me her roommate’s boyfriend was stalking her, he thought she was an influencer. I can hear our laughter. A sharp pain twists my gut, as though my intestines are being ripped out, and I bend into my cramps. My eyes lock onto my chipped pink nail polish, a striking contrast to the confusion scrambling around me.

The detective asks, “Do you want me to call back later?” 

I want him never to have called at all. My fingers are trembling.

“No, tell me now.” I say gasping for breath.

His gruff voice muffles words together. 

“The boyfriend fired his gun. I’m very sorry.” 

I think that’s what he said, but maybe not.

                                                                      *   *   *

Edna Schneider’s work has been published in The Whisky Blot, Grande Dame, and the Jewish Literary Journal, as well as in professional journals. She holds a bachelor’s degree from Emerson College in Dramatic Arts and a master’s degree from LIU in Speech-Language Pathology.

By Laverty Sparks

As I wedged my way into the cramped airplane seat, middle position, I noticed the young gent of twenty-five or twenty-six years old occupying the window seat. He missed out on the world around him and outside the window as he focused on his smartphone, thumbs blazing.

An obviously-stressed woman, hitting forty in my estimation, threw her suitcase into the overhead compartment and sat beside me.

She was a different story from the tech geek to my right.

“Oh, if only my husband would travel with me. I could really use the help.” This lady was apparently talking to me as I was the only reluctant listener. “But as it is, he won’t do planes, cruises, no busses, nothing.” She caught her breath. “All he wants to do is sit home.” She buckled her seat belt which was a chore at a compact waist circumference of probably fifty inches. “I can’t do it. I can’t sit at home. Can you?”

I “hummphed” a few times to engage in the one sided conversation but I’d rather be reading the romance novel stationed in my hand. Some people just can’t take a hint.

The woman laughed. “Of course not because here you are!” She crossed her arms. “But I love him. We just have our own interests.” She grinned and fluffed her tightly cropped head of salt and pepper hair.

Apparently lonely, she never waited for any reciprocation. I half listened. The other half concentrated on the announcement of how long the flight would be.

Too long I had a feeling.

“Care to see pictures of us?” She’d already retrieved her purse from beneath the seat in front of her as the flight attendants made their way down the aisles, making sure everyone was fastened in. 

“Sure, why not?” I responded with a long sigh. 

Did I have a choice?

She rummaged through the leather pouch, finding what she was looking for, and displayed the picture of a couple at Christmastime posed in front of a gorgeous well-decorated tree.

Nonchalantly I took a peek, uninterested. I nodded my head and added a “that’s nice” to the mix. Gandering at strangers’ photos wasn’t in my plans at thirty five thousand feet.

Then emotional terror struck … recognition hadn’t registered instantly. OMG!

You know the feeling when a car nearly T-bones you and you escape from the incident shaking?

I was experiencing that same reaction.

The man starring back at me in the photo was a guy I’d recently ended an affair with. 

How could I keep my cool? Not react?

Was this intentional? 

A setup?

Surely not!

But what’s the chance?

My heart skipped a beat and I hugged the book closer to my chest hoping it would provide some kind of shield she couldn’t penetrate. The possibility of me and her meeting was as remote as hitting a jackpot the first time gambling.

What could I do? I was trapped.

She almost returned the picture to her purse before I stopped her.

“May I see that again?” I managed. “Your tree looks fantastic, almost like mine from last year.”

She bought the request. 

The photo confirmed any suspicions I had left. It was Steven Morris. I always wondered in our relationship how his wife could have been so naïve, how she could have not known he really wasn’t working overtime. How she could have not realized his attention really wasn’t on the family at quality times.

Unless he was really good at hiding his emotions.

Perhaps I was the one who was fooled.

“Oh yes, wonderful.” Was all I could muster as my throat tightened, as fear took a swipe at my courage. Would she believe my irony?

My conscience wasn’t fit for any more of this discussion.

Fortunately with no suspicion, she put away the items, yawned, and closed her eyes. I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Now I could collect my thoughts, and my resolve.  

Leaning my head back, I remembered Steven so clearly in my mind. His broad shoulders, lean hips, a smile that wouldn’t quit. Sandy blonde hair naturally parted on the left side, starched shirts, creased pants. Goodness, could he make a suit look fabulous! 

  He used to admit he’d rode lightly over the bumps and ruts in life and landed at my doorstep.

Yet there were hurdles he had to maneuver. 

After noticing me at the company we both worked at, he’d tried for months to capture my notice. I knew it but wouldn’t reciprocate. After all, I had my principles, knowing he was married.

But after a while his influence loomed too large for me to ignore and before long we were meeting for drinks. The rest of the three year affair is history, of which I ended.

Now as I glanced at a smiling and snoring Mrs. Morris beside me I couldn’t help but feel pity for her. Steven and I weren’t out to hurt anyone, especially her or their children. We just had things in common like work, free spirits, and needs to get more out of life. And we understood each other.

I have to wonder if the misses ever knew about the infidelity. Or if she did, simply chose to ignore it. Because obviously they were still married. 

Shaking my head back to the matter at hand, I opened my book but couldn’t concentrate. Glancing at my watch I realized two hours had passed since we took off from the airport. 

How was that possible? Was I so self-absorbed that I allowed this to happen?

Goodness! What a trip it had been.

“Folks we’re beginning our final approach into Tampa. Please make sure your seat belts are properly fastened.”

Oh, how I wished more than that was fastened!

  Common sense wrestled with venture. A major decision to call him again and tell him what happened snuck into my conscience.

Should I?

Did I really want to punish him?

As the jet bounced down the runway, taxied, and parked at the gate, it was now me with a smile on her face.

I knew the answers to my own questions even before unfastening my seat belt.

                                                               *   *   *

Laverty Sparks is the gal you want to tell your secrets to, she’s just that trustworthy. She’s the kind of woman the others have a hard time figuring out…she’s that mysterious. But she’s the sensitive best friend, lover, neighbor, sibling, daughter, aunt, cousin, etc. who sympathizes and empathizes. And she writes about it, and for those women who have an understanding of the range of emotions when dealing with intimacy. Laverty’s works have been published under the name of Laurel Sparks-Sellers in Senior Living, Indiana Voice Journal, Boomer Women Speak: Our Voices, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Indiana Voice Journal.