I still wonder how you can convince me to travel with a wanderer like you; are you not exhausted yet? Perhaps not. “The Golden Gate Bridge will be my last stop… for now,” a snicker from your lips; what a weak voice you have now.
“I’ll buy us tickets, then.”
“No. Paint the bridge on our car’s door. Make it bright—the design, please,” before your eyelids shut. I kiss your forehead—apologies for the single tear slip.
Two weeks later.
I have painted the bridge. I have packed our bags. I have booked a hotel reservation. I have bought a city tour package.
On the passenger’s seat, I place your jar of ashes. I lock the seat belt on your ceramic skin. “Hold on tight, dear. We’re going to San Francisco.”
Check out this week’s prompt at:
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
WORD COUNT: 132
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.