She grimaces, coquettishly, as she lies down. My bed is smaller than those in prison, the mattress thinner. Yet I have coaxed this sophisticated woman into it. I put on Dylan’s Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowland and actually suggest she listen to the words. After 11 minutes and 23 seconds the track ends. The bed is empty. I grimace.
Fancy more flash fiction – here’s something festive about birds.