Flash fiction by Michael Botur

 

 

Sorry In a Dream

 

Dodged the thrown bone, kitchen knives aimed at eyes, soupy napalm bomb, words hurled, burns suppurate the skin, soak to bone.

IN YOUR DREAMS, you screamed.

Sunk into bed, feigned a truce, smushed the truth, massaged the broken vase, tried to spoon as you turned your shoulderblades away, barbed back, vertebrae barricade, I tugged the duvet over us to nuzzle but I got an elbow in the oesophagus, rebuffed.

In my dreams, we awoke to latte foam and pastry crumbling in the throat. ‘So so sorry’ I moaned, chirping birds on strings of morning sun, yawning forearms thrown back, your exposed throat, your ribs reaching out, our legs vines, our sorries intertwined. We packed the Rav4 with picnic, flask and wicker basket, leashed our Labrador, her wagging tongue took us on tour of the park, kicking drifts of rusty leaves, laughing, frisbee-stiff bread biffed at swans and your pursed cheeks sucking on a straw of juice, arched eyebrows and a whisk of fringe I fixed with a fingertip licked.

Sit up.

Suck my Ventolin and puff.

The dream’s residue has left a sheen, there’s no reason a dream isn’t real, it comes from inside, manufactured in a real mind, roll over and chase the spirit of the sleep while outside the lids of my eyes you don’t bleat or preach or shriek, just a cold one-paragraph epitaph on my phone to say it’s over, you’ve CC’d Mister Barrister L-L-B, but-but-but we made up, hon, I said sorry in the dream, yeah, seriously, well WAKE UP you scream.