Flash fiction
Bonbons in a glass jar tempt me; a jar of chopped-up rainbow. I swirl a yellow one around my mouth, expect the zing and tang of fresh lemon. I spit it into my hand when no one is looking and bury it in a potted ficus by the TV set. I hate bananas. My husband devours them instead of crisps and candy. I smell them on his clothes; just a hint, through wood spice aftershave and whiskey.
I inhale roses and jasmine in the garden, stroke my forearm with a yellow rose petal. Its satin caress excites minuscule hairs and sends tingles to my fingertips. Through squares of trellis, I see the couple next door under their awning, intertwined. His hands devour her, and I know he smells of lemons. I imagine lying on moist grass early in the morning, with dewdrops clinging to my flesh like the cold sweat of anticipation on skin. Wet, glassy beads reflect pieces of him; they’re all over my body while nearby, grasshoppers buzz. His scent of lemon zest stirs the ache of what could be mine.
I am a glass for my husband too, but a cloudy one, where lemonade looks like dishwater. He no longer drinks me; prefers to drink from clear crystal goblets while I hide in the long grass surrendering to illicit desire, alone. This saves me from further temptation, that pulls me next door to a man who once stroked my glass skin–smooth yet silky, with his fingertips.