We grew to one side in millimetres, not miles. The house, a hollow squat, purred amid our quiet. Your stomach drained nightly into our mattress. Vinegar breaths melted frost on the windows.
Our voices drilled the walls, vibrating molecules, as the sound passed through, but didn’t mark, the paint and plaster. My voice prodded you for warmth. Its weight curved your spine. You replied in hacks and sniffles that spread germs and caused colds. Your breakneck sneezes broke the windows.
Quiet kisses blew away down the hill, searching for someone new. Their sounds travelled underground, to echo and haunt us.
Gerard McKeown is an Irish writer living in London. His work has been featured in The Moth, 3:AM, and Litro, among others. In 2017, he was shortlisted for The Bridport Prize. More work can be viewed at www.gerardmckeown.co.uk
Image Credit: Wenniel Lun
Categories: Flash Fiction