Don’t Waste Wine When There’s Words to Sell
Even, especially, her bedroom was girly.  He wasn’t used to feminine.  When he was first in her bed, it was daytime and they hadn’t really been drinking, despite the bottle of wine by the bed, a prop to excuse their actions.  They only had a few sips while they acted like teenagers.  When he closed his eyes he could still sense girl, the sun bursting through her hot pink curtains, his eyelids.

Afterwards, leaving work late some nights, he’d drive near her house, and could see if she was home by the bedside table lamp lighting up her pink curtain.

Arms to Arms
They often visited the same state park, mostly at different times, only once together.

He’d hike, she’d drive the hills with her car top down, a slow-motion roller coaster through sun-exploded green, listening to their music. Sometimes they left notes for each other under a rock by his trailhead.

Afterwards, they passed each other in the park a few times, and half-raised hands from their steering wheels.

The one time they’d been there together, she’d shown him the river overlook that he’d never known about. They were completely isolated but he looked around before he let his arms circle her.

Smearing a Look
The first time she put her hands on him was up under his shirt, her hands on his sides, then on his lower back. His skin was silky, slightly loose on his lean frame.

In the middle of their time, she grabbed that same place, dug her nails in and dragged, from back to sides, without thinking. He had to wear a shirt in front of his wife for the next week.

The last time she touched him was again there, just up under his shirt. When he left, she kept her eyes down, turned off the front porch light.

—Micro Fictions by Vallie Lynn Watson
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—Background photo by Doriana Maria
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