She was not a cat. She just had long hair. He found strands on the bed, or on the couch, after she'd left. She laughed when he said the cat’s visited me again.
They met once a month in secret. She was afraid of honour killings. He was afraid of losing her.
He called her Habibti despite the colour of his skin. She called him Baby despite her far younger years. They made love and watched DVDs. They ate chocolate.
And then she caught a bus, and then a train, back across the city to where she lived.
She never talked about their future. He never talked about her silence.
Excellent micro-fiction Rob.
ReplyDeleteYou'll soon have enough for that compilation.
You could have one from every country in the world - around the world in 160 micro-stories!
(Or however many countries there are.)
For the short-attention-spanned reader who's too lazy to travel.
Dave