A damp imprint tingled on her face, the wisp of a breeze igniting his kiss for a split second before wood scraped against wood and the air went still as a grave. April imagined the tiny flakes of white paint chipped onto her carpet below the window, listened for her mother’s sleepy falsetto question, and then felt her dad’s baritone rumble up through the floor. Their door thudded closed, then the house laid silent.
April sat bolt upright and gawked at the blackness outside her bedroom. Her pillow still smelled like him—herby shampoo and campfire smoke. She padded over to gaze into the woods beyond; two dim lanterns floated in inky black, canvas tents lit from within.
Zach kissed me.
Her belly was an Asian carp caught in a net.
But that cockroach on me! He helped them.
Her heart was Thor’s Mjölnir.
Or did he?
Her brain was Hurricane Katrina.
He’s so beautiful. Do I care?
Hours dragged until finally, the lanterns clicked off.
“Screw it.” She wrenched open her window. Her toes gripped the roof shingles as she leaned to embrace her oldest friend. She held tight to upper limbs and shimmied along his trusted arm, then hopped from the old oak onto thin grass below, shocks bolting through her insteps.
Nearing the tents, she wondered which one Zach slept in and blushed at the sudden heat between her thighs. Muddy hiking boots, old Converse, and ratty Teva’s defiled the nearest threshold. Couldn’t be Zach’s.
April crept as close as she dared and held her breath. Quiet snores. Balancing on her haunches, she reached out two fingers and pinched the zipperhead. Zzzzzzzit. Two flaps yawned open, any bare flesh inside offered in sacrifice: a mosquito feast.
She glanced at the other tent, but left it unmolested.
This flash fiction is a part of the Blogging From A to Z (April 2015) Challenge. A new installment arrives every day in April, following the alphabet; check the calendar below to see which letters post on which days. Read more about this blogfest HERE.