KYSO Flash
Knock-Your-Socks-Off Art and Literature
Issue 6: Fall 2016
Micro-Fiction: 388 words

Her Weight Is His

by Matthew S. Rosin

She leans back against him.

He pulls her close, from behind, one arm across the open top button of her blouse.

She rests her head against his chest and closes her eyes.

Her weight is his.

They wait for their turn in the crosswalk. Her black hair shines in the sun.

Thirty minutes ago, at lunch together, he proposed marriage. She cried and said, “Yes, yes, of course.” The other patrons clapped. Now, their bodies cannot help but draw each other close.

Or they married barely a month ago. She cancelled her mid-day appointments, and he arranged a long lunch break. Now, they walk home to make love.

Or after six years of marriage, consumed by work and habit, they have not made love in six months. They walked to the post office to drop a few bills in the mail. On their way home, they both reached for the crosswalk button. Their hands brushed each other accidentally. Now, they remember how it feels to touch.

Or they just learned they will have a child, after six months of trying. It’s too early to know whether it’s a girl or a boy, but she thinks it’s a girl. Something about how the steam from her oatmeal warmed her sinuses that morning, the pregnancy test on a folded paper towel to one side, holding a place at the kitchen table. Now, he murmurs encouragement, and she waits for nausea to pass.

Or they just lost the baby. Blood ran down her thighs and she knew, as surely as she had known it was a girl. Now, she is spent, and he tries to be strong.

Or they just ate their first meal out, just the two of them, without their new baby daughter. “Go, go,” Grandma had insisted. “I can babysit. Enjoy yourselves.” They ate hamburgers and talked about their daughter. Now, her full breasts call them back to the nursery, and their bodies cradle a moment of rest.

Or a phone call at 6:00 a.m. broke the news: Grandma died in her sleep. There was no warning and, so far, no reason. Now, he steadies her as the ground shifts beneath her feet, a mother without a mother.

Her weight is his.

The light turns green. I press the gas pedal and drive on.

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