Lost & Found
493-word flash fiction about love, not romance.
“Can I read it?” My wife’s hand pressed on my shoulder.
“It’s not finished yet. I still have to write the end of the story before I can let you read it.” The laptop keys were warm beneath my fingertips.
“I’m sure it’s not all that bad now. What’s the saying? It’s about the journey, not the destination.” I could feel the weight of her gaze on my laptop screen, and I hoped it wasn’t so obvious I was trying to block it with my head.
“Why would you want to read an incomplete story? A story I’m specifically writing for you?” She was distracting me now. If there was one thing they don’t show you in the movies, it’s that love is exhausting.
“Maybe to see if I like what you’ve written so far?”
“Oh, trust me, you’ll like it.” My coffee had grown warm, but it was still sweet. “This is going to be one of my best stories.”
“Okay Stephen King, don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Elise always had a way of keeping me in line–of grounding me when I floated away. It’s what I loved most about her. Through a cobwebbed window, I can see the kids rummaging around the dry garden. They’re always finding a new creepy crawler to show me, and boy, does my office get cold.
“I’ll go check on the kids, you have a read, and you can tell me your thoughts about what I have so far.” I roll out from my desk and hold my chair for my wife to sit. I’ll never get used to the nerves that shoot up my spine when Elise reads my stories. I’m still convincing myself that it’s a good thing.
I watch her from the garden, while our kids pile soil, rocks and insects in the palm of my hands. I love reading her face, but I hate the assumptions that creep into my head. Curiosity wrinkles her brow, and her silver hair glistens, though the sun doesn’t shine directly into the office. She’s the kind of misty forest I could happily get lost in.
“Dad, why do you look at Mum like that?” My youngest asks. He shares Elise’s curious tone.
“It’s because they kissed. That’s what happens when you kiss a girl.” My oldest was at that age where girls were grosser than the worms in my hand.
They both gag and reel and chuckle.
“That’s right. When you kiss someone you love, they cast a spell on you. The kind that makes you hold worms for little goblins.” I look at the pink noodles squirming in the black soil I held in my hands. I used to hate playing in the dirt.
“I’m not ever going to kiss someone. I’m not ever going to love someone.” My oldest claims.
“That’s what I thought too,” I tell him.
“Am I a goblin?” My youngest wonders, with a hint of concern on his face.
Written for Flash Fiction February with Storytelling Collective, where the prompt was: A character handles an ordinary task with unusual and over-the-top care or Love.