Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash
by Mikki Aronoff
Don’t watch me! he shouts as he swivels towards you, his mouth twisting one last command as the airport crowds shuffling from security to the gates press against him, throng around his body like ravenous white cells engulfing microbes.
Before the others swallow him up in their stream, you glower, shout back You can’t direct me ‘cause I’m not in one of your plays, and grind your teeth as you glare at the sinews of his lanky, sandy body, that stretch of a frame that first courted and cornered you in waltz after waltz, later holding then entering you, his softly uttered promises dancing into your future.
Now he, the love of your life, is returning to his. You gather the heat of your eyes, their fire, stare lasers past the stream and eddy of travelers, through the back of his skull, into his eyes, watch as his hair goes up in flames, the tower of his flesh and the string of his bones reduce to a pinprick of ash, a trivial grey rickle, on the polished linoleum floor, to be swept up and bagged for trash. In the eddy and swirl of rushing passengers, his ashes whirl and rise. A speck flies into your eye, worms its way into your brain, condemns you forever to watch him leave again and again and again.
Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024/2025 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Small Fictions 2025.
