PERHAPS ON A SUMMER’S DAY by Laura Besley (2nd place, Flash, Nov24)

Perhaps on a Summer’s Day

there is a young woman whose bottom lip wobbles, whose eyes bristle with tears. Perhaps her name is Sadie. Perhaps Sadie has just lost her job and doesn’t know how she’ll pay her rent next month. But perhaps Sadie’s tears are happy tears and she’s biting her lip to stop herself grinning about a recent promotion. Or perhaps her name is Saarah and she is a student who’s received a better grade than she was expecting; perhaps Saarah failed an exam. Perhaps her name is Salma and she has a lover who is kind to her, who after the sudden redundancy or timed-essay fuck up comforts her by bringing her a share bag of chocolate buttons and a bottle of cheap Tempranillo which reminds her of her grandparents. Or perhaps her lover celebrates her earned success by buying her those very same items or perhaps, instead, her lover stands on her doorstep, carrying a dehydrated pot plant with droopy leaves and papery blue flowers. But perhaps Salma’s or Saarah’s or Sadie’s lover doesn’t celebrate her success. Perhaps her lover isn’t kind. Perhaps her lover tells her she should’ve studied more, she should’ve worked harder. Perhaps her lover says something like: ‘Didn’t I tell you you’d do well if you did it the way I showed you?’ But perhaps this young woman, whoever she is, Salma or Saarah or Sadie, doesn’t have a lover and weathers the storms and springs of her life alone. Perhaps she prefers it that way. Perhaps being alone is better than being with someone who doesn’t celebrate your successes, doesn’t soothe your losses. Perhaps being alone is what’s right and although what’s right will be different for each Sadie, each Saarah, each Salma, each woman, perhaps, perhaps, there is a right way for all of them somewhere, somehow, alone, or not. And perhaps on this summer’s day, it’s unseasonably cold, the chill in the air more autumn than august, and this young woman whose bottom lip wobbles, whose eyes bristle with tears, pulls her cardigan tighter around her. Perhaps she notices the gathering geese. Perhaps she’s read that in flight they form the shape of a heart, perhaps she’s heard this way they can conserve energy and communicate more easily. Or perhaps she merely stands and stares and marvels at the pure instinct which makes them spread their great grey wings, take off into the sky where clouds hang like suspended dreams, and fly away.