Notions

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While she was filling up the tank, Monica had heard the other car door slam, but she assumed Fatima was just heading into the gas station to pee. So, she was very perplexed to see her friend tromping out of the ditch by the highway instead. “What were you doing down there?”

Fatima’s face was all summer breeze and sunshine. “Picking wildflowers,” she answered.

But she had done more than that. What Fatima held up was a woven crown of small blue and purple and white blossoms. “It’s lovely,” Monica said.

“Then it’s perfect for you.” Fatima stepped behind Monica. Close behind. She began gathering up Monica’s long auburn hair and pulling out through the wreath she had made.

Monica’s heartbeat had quickened. “I hope you’re not getting notions,” she said.

A smile shaped Fatima’s words as she asked, “What sort of notions?”

Monica fought to keep her voice casual. “This has been a fun trip, but . . .”

“But?”

Monica sighed. “I don’t really do . . . relationships.”

It felt strangely painful to say those words, a pain that sharpened when Fatima’s answered simply, “I know.”

Was that regret in Fatima’s voice? Monica could feel that breath of that answer on her neck and the gentle rug of Fatima’s fingers running through her hair. “So what are you doing?” Monica asked.

Fatima walked back around to face Monica. She shrugged and answered, “I’m crowning a beautiful woman with summer.” A wide, glowing smile, deep, generous eyes looking over her handiwork. As simple as the answer was, Monica realized it was genuine. Fatima was asking for nothing, and Monica suddenly wanted to give her everything. She leaned forward and found Fatima’s lips with hers.

A gust of summer wind. A sudden eruption of birdsong. The softness of fluffy white clouds. Heat and flowers and blazing sunsets.

Their lips parted.

Fatima arched an eyebrow as her mouth curved into a smile. “Notions?” she asked.

Monica’s cheeks were flushed red. “Maybe I could make an exception.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Gravity

Posted on by gmfx

“What do you mean, no?” Denise couldn’t quite keep the panic out of her voice as she asked the question. Alarms for two different patients chimed loudly, the phone she carried was ringing again, and she still hadn’t had a chance to clean the puke off her shoe.

Monica, meanwhile, remained unmoved by the chaos of the busy surgical unit. “That’s Dr. Melnik’s patient, right? The kid with the double mastectomy?”

“Right,” Denise said. Her eyes flitted toward the bed just a few feet away from them where the patient slept. “They’re ready up on the floor, and we’ve got another—”

“Yeah, someone else can take her,” Monica said, turning away.

“You have to,” Denise insisted, voice growing almost as shrill as the chimes that surrounded them. “Just because you’re uncomfortable with—”

“I’m not taking her,” Monica announced with a glare of finality over her shoulder.

“Him,” a soft voice replied. The patient’s eyes were open, staring fixedly at Monica. No animosity. No challenge. Just a calm demand for dignity. One word spoken with a gravity that could change orbits. Monica realized this sixteen year-old understood himself better than she had ever known herself. Face red, eyes wet, she fled.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Introductions

Posted on by gmfx

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“What? No, I’m fine,” Kalisha answered a little too quickly.

“That’s not what I asked,” her mother said, narrowing her eyes.

Kalisha groaned. “I just know how you can be sometimes, and I really don’t want—”

“Oh hush, child,” her mother interrupted. “We won’t be too hard on Robby when he gets here.”

“That’s the thing—”

But then the doorbell rang, and her mother’s eyes lit up. “Oh good, he’s here.” And with that, she turned sharply and walked away from her exasperated daughter.

“Mom,” Kalisha hissed.

“George,” she called to Kalisha’s father. “Get downstairs. Kalisha’s boyfriend is here.”

“Mom, before you open that door—”

Too late. She swung the door open with a flourish to stifle her daughter’s protestations. Standing on the porch was a slender, bright-eyed young woman with messy purple hair. “Good afternoon Mrs. Johnson,” the stranger said.

“Oh. Hello. Are you . . .”

“Robbi,” she answered. “Yeah.”

Kalisha held her breath.

“Of course you are,” her mother said, face broadening into a smile. “Come in, come in.”

Robbi strolled in casually and planted a kiss on Kalisha’s cheek.

“Mom?”

Still smiling, her mother called out, “George! You owe me twenty bucks!”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Flashlight

Posted on by gmfx

Quinn knew they couldn’t ignore the flashlight for long. Ignoring footsteps was easy. Ignoring cars was even easier; their rising and falling noise could be almost soothing. Voices were tricky, especially the boisterous ones spilling out of the pub at the other end of the alley. But they always moved on eventually.

The flashlight didn’t move. “You can’t stay here, son,” a gruff voice declared.

Quinn finally opened their eyes, glaring into light. It was impossible to discern any features of the individual, but even so Quinn knew exactly what sort of person was staring down at them. “Fine,” they croaked, and began hauling themself up from the makeshift bed. The spotlight never left. They almost felt like taking a bow.

“You need a place to go?” the officer asked.

Why else do you think I’m sleeping behind the dumpster? Quinn thought. But they simply mumbled, “I’m good,” and began shuffling down the alley. The flashlight followed.

“It’s going to be cold tonight, son” the officer offered. “Better to be somewhere warm, with four walls around you.”

Quinn kept walking. “I’m nobody’s son,” they said without looking back. They followed the shadow ahead of them, moving resolutely into the unknown.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox