By David Henson
On our first date, we kissed on your porch. When you said good night, silver bubbles streamed from your mouth like breath in cold air. I think you tried to mask your blush with the dim light. I decided to play along.
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Silver bubbles in the bedroom. Silver bubbles in the shower. Silver bubbles on the living room floor. When we were apart, all I could think of were silver bubbles.
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My favorite nights were when your whispering woke me, bubbles popping moistly on my neck, my chest, stomach…
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Your bubbles began breaking dryly against my skin. They drifted farther apart. You nudged my snoring.
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One night I kissed you. A pebble rolled into my mouth.
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Your Chevy is in the driveway, engine ticking as it cools. I peek in the side window. The car is full of silver bubbles.
When I told you about my dream, a pebble fell from your lips.
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Pebbles in the bedroom. Pebbles in the shower. Pebbles on the living room floor.
They say putting pebbles in your mouth will quench thirst. They only made my mouth water.
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The pebbles stopped, but you no longer spoke bubbles. Only words. And not many of those.
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I found on my pillow your note, blank. On top of it, a single bubble, unbreakable and hard as a pebble.
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David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels, Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Illinois. His work was selected for the Wigleaf 50 longlist and has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net. His stories and poetry have appeared in numerous print and online journals including Bright Flash Literary Review, Best Microfictions 2025, Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Pithead Chapel, Moonpark Review, and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.