Morning Cigarette (A Flash Fiction)

You put on your night robe, but don’t tie the strings.

It is a bright Sunday morning yet the city is still sleeping. Everybody’s too lazy to wake up and see the day; we’re the only ones awake. You light up a cigarette and breathe out the smokes. You bat your eyelashes to me and smile evilly. You’re so goddamn beautiful.

I’m sipping my hot coffee from the mug you used last night. It still tastes like you. I feel so light and airy—like my body is gliding through the blue skies.

Your phone rings and you search for it under the sheets. I lazily smile at the gorgeous view.

“Hello…” There is a muttered voice on the line. I don’t like how your face turns sad. I sit straight and wait for you to finish. “I’ll be there.”

Your eyes scream panic and loss. You grab my small, blank canvass and hand it to me. You lay on my unmade bed and take off your robe. You position yourself, all bare and skin. “Paint me.”

I swallow this time. I’ve forgotten the secrecy of us. We might have gone too far this time.

There are tears in your eyes as you plead, “paint me.” I start to mix my colors, trying to concentrate and not falter.

Before I make my first stroke, I hear you say, “hang it when you’re done and don’t forget about me.”

I wish I’m your husband.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

let me hold your words before you leave;

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