SIXTY SECONDS

By Andy Padjen | 10 March 2003

“You’ve got exactly sixty seconds to tell me what you meant by that,” she said, anger in her eyes.

This is the first time in months that I’ve had her attention.  Now I don’t know if I want it.  I suppose this is my chance to say important things.  Her eyes are cold.  Should I take back what I said?  She has no idea how serious I am.  Have you ever longed to be somewhere so badly that it made you cry?  Maybe I should just embrace her one last time, and not even say anything.  In the embrace, she’ll understand what I meant.  Emotions are transferable.  Have you ever wanted a fresh start so badly that it made you cry?  I need to take a second or two to look at her deeply, because I may never be this close to her again.  I used to stare at her face for hours.  I loved every freckle.  “Who made you?  Where does beauty come from?” I would whisper to myself.  She got so mad at me one time, for something I did or didn’t do, that she refused to forgive me.  So I went into her bathroom and put on her lip gloss.  I buried my face in her bath towel.  I needed her touch.  Every morning she has Italian toast for breakfast.  Except every once in a while she has a grapefruit instead.  On those mornings I know I can ask her anything.  So maybe I should’ve waited for a grapefruit morning.  Timing isn’t everything.  Life is more complex than that.  Have you ever wanted to be alone so badly that it made you cry?  Sixty seconds isn’t much time to make this kind of decision.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 3rd, 2009 at 3:52 pm and is filed under Flash Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.