Here is a random flash-fiction story I found on my computer. Enjoy!

Sticking Plasters.

My goddess has sticking plasters on the soles of her feet. Her sandals cut her skin to ribbons but she doesn’t care because she says that this way she can feel the grass on her toes. Now though, she lies on our settee, stomach down, reading about far away worlds in imagined futures and I sit at the other end, watching her pendulum feet with their not-quite-skin coloured patches.

It’s warm outside and she asks me to open the window a little further. I don’t see what it will accomplish. The air conditioning makes the place cooler than an open window ever could but while I’m up I put the kettle on and empty the teapot of the cold, soggy bag from earlier. She glances up with black eyes and grins at me, though she does not meet my gaze.

“Yes please,” She says.

I take the milk out of the fridge and take a brief sniff. The little black stamp on the top of the carton says it should be turning today but it still smells all right. I pour just a little into the bottom of our mugs and then stare at her purple kettle, waiting for it to boil.

I decant steaming water into the patient vessel and glance at her again. She’s absorbed in a place that’s better than here and is involved with people who are better than me – heroes and monsters and men who create. I can not create.

I offer her the larger mug of tea and wait until she’s shuffled herself into a sitting position. She sips it and smiles in thanks, laying it reverently down on the little coffee table beside her book. She won’t look at me, eyes on the floor as she sorts her skirt. She picks up the mug again and cradles it in both hands as if by coming from me it’s precious.

She finishes the tea and is about to pick up the book again when the doorbell rings. Men come up the stairs to our little flat and she gives them instructions. She takes the kettle and three suitcases of clothes. The men take the rest.  She’s gathered a lot in our seven years.

They carry her things below to the van and she looks around the flat one final time. Bundled into her arms are the last of her books. A tome of names and one simply entitled “9 months”. She adds the box of sticking plasters to her pile and smiles at me, apologetically. I know what she wants to say but can’t and I nod to let her know that it’s all right, that it isn’t her fault.

In a few years time I know my goddess will be fine, that she and husband will be walking through grassy fields and that in front of them their infant will run.

My goddess has sticking plasters on her feet. Nothing is her fault. As a goddess she must create, it’s her purpose. Incapable as I am to follow, my love becomes secondary.

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