Lace
He was short, with fleshy white hands, and every Sunday after church, he made quiet lewd jokes to Lorna, who would button up her coat—her sister's old leopard print, too tight around her breasts—and leave looking down. She wished she were elated after sermons, and wise, but instead she imagined him trotting behind her.
Certainly he didn't mean the things he'd said, but there must have been something about her, for him to single her out, to look at her this way.
Lorna wore her husband's gray briefs he'd bought from Tilly's before his stroke. His travelling pair, thin and soft, the one he hand-washed in hotels, reminded her of the days they traded clothes just because they could. But her bra was new, bubblegum pink. On only one salary, it was either a coat or a bra, and she chose the bra.
Before turning into the park Lorna looked back, to where the church spire reached up, stiff and erect. The sidewalk was empty. She crossed the street, and saw, at the distance, their white-gray building floating behind the lacy fans of the bare maple trees, against the blue of the sky.
Ekleksographia:
Wave Two
March, 2010
Fiction
Ania Vesenny
Ania Vesenny's flash fiction can be found in Per Contra, SmokeLong Quarterly, FRiGG, elimae, Night Train, and elsewhere. Her short stories are forthcoming in Descant (Canada) and The Toronto Quarterly. She's currently working on a novel. Learn more at her blog: aniavesenny.blogspot.com.