By David Henson
You sit up in bed and entwine your arms behind your back, joints whispering beneath your skin, the impression of your legs under the sheet like creases in paper. I say your arms resemble the necks of swans in love. You tell me that’s a myth. When I say I didn’t know you were double-jointed, you say swans don’t have joints. I chuckle and say that’s not even a myth. Sunlight traces the curve of your breasts as if it’s memorizing something I’ll forget.
—
The quiet of your absence wakes me. Your car is gone. I hope you’re getting doughnuts, the ones dusted with sugar and weekend joy. I’m drinking coffee in the kitchen when you walk in and drop your keys on the table. You say you’ve been at yoga. I ask since when. You say about an hour ago. I say that’s not what I meant. As you pour yourself a cup, steam curling into a smile, you tell me your instructor said you were the most flexible student he’s ever had.
—
I find you in the armchair reading a book with paper cranes on the cover. You tell me yoga is human origami. I ask if that’s from your instructor. You stand on one leg and touch your elbows together behind your head. When I say that’s impossible, you say nothing is.
—
I learn your instructor’s name is Origami. Suddenly it all makes sense. When I wake up, it doesn’t. Over breakfast, I ask you the name of your yoga instructor. You pause mid-bite and say you forgot. I ask you where the studio is. You say you know the way. That evening you practice poses, angling in ways that make me look away.
—
The next Saturday, I intend to follow you, but you don’t leave. Instead, you announce you don’t need lessons anymore—your body has learned what it needs to know. You spend the entire weekend making origami roses, each blossom a secret in your hands. When I ask you to create a bird, you say you haven’t learned to fly yet, your grin stinging like a paper cut.
—
I linger after you’ve left for work and search through your dresser for a version of you that hasn’t folded out of my reach. I discover a drawer full of origami birds.
—
I’m surprised to see your car in the driveway. You usually get home after me. I creep into the house and hear moaning from our bedroom. When I look in, you’re standing at the window, folded like a closed flower. It takes you a few seconds to open. You frown and say someone has been going through your things. When I ask how you know, you nod toward the dresser and say a little bird told you. Neither of us laughs.
—
Hearing the water in the shower, I sneak a peek at your origami book and create a peace offering. It’ll never fly, you say over the roar of the hair blower. You touch the condensation on the mirror and outline a bird, your breath quickly blurring its wings. I say it’ll never fly. You frown at my echo and say you know things I don’t.
—
One evening, I try creasing along new lines. You discover me stuck, unable to move. As you help me unfold, I say you’re blossoming into something I can’t be. You smile and say nothing is impossible. Then you announce that you’ve set the stars to music.
—
The next morning, while you sleep, I fold a piece of paper — once, twice, again. Not a star, but a bird. I set it on the windowsill. Nothing is impossible.
* * *
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for Best Microfictions 2025, nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net, and two Best Small Fictions. His writings have appeared in various journals including Bright Flash Literary Journal, Literally Stories, Ghost Parachute,, Moonpark Review, and Maudlin House. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His X handle is @annalou8.