Longlist – 2026 Gooseberry Pie Annual Writing Competition
by Nicole Brogdon
I wear the same three suits of clothing over and over, she complains—those damned beige cargo shorts with a dozen ripped pockets—and, When was the last time I suggested a new restaurant, a real brick-and-mortar place instead of a taco truck, or, God forbid, a new position for lovemaking? She pulls away from me, a long lean body in a yellow tee shirt and tight jeans, and then she drops me—Ow— striding away from me in pumps like she means it, sliding into my truck, and somehow driving away —though she’s never had a head for directions. Leaving me, a bald head alone on the table, where I lull back-and-forth on my chin for half an hour, not sure how to move forward.
I’m no good without her, my velvet-skinned body, who’s all curves and secret caves, who loves sun-colored clothing, gladiolas, and creamy foods—Alfredo sauce on red and green vegetables, rose-pink açaí bowls—while I’ve got no appetite without her, turning this way and that on the floor, slurping tequila, unable to settle into a TV show, a nap, a hot shower, and no amount of reading astrophysicists makes sense of how broken I feel, so we must reconcile.
Next morning, my head pounding, I gulp a bowl of bran flakes, then I’m spinning like a satellite toward her, towards the weight room at her gym, Planet Fitness, and I see her, I smell her, all pumping, spandexed thighs, and muscle-ripped, downy-haired arms, glorious salty sweet sweat, pure mindless embodied motion, squatting in a dead weight, pausing, like she can’t think what to do next. And I’m her dearly beloved head, rolling, rolling towards her, her missing full moon, rotating like a bowling ball in a bowling alley, though she can’t see clearly to know it’s me, and I nearly knock her down, but I stop short before her neon green sneakers, and I ask her out to dinner at that fine pink sushi place I read about, rocking, waiting for my ripe energetic love to reach down and lift me in those capable hands—how I’ve missed the touch of her fingers— to hold me like I’m a precious fishbowl, or her favorite beach ball, and place me gingerly on her sore neck once more, pop, to complete us, a perfect, whole hook up of mind and body.
Nicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Centaur, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, etc. Best Microfiction 2024, Best Microfiction 2025. Twitter NBrogdonWrites! nbrogdonwrites.bsky.social.
