It started when my boss asked for a strong black coffee. My mind catapulted to those cool Sunday mornings when I’d wake you up with a freshly made cup. The house would be tinged in the pale yellow of the early spring sun, and you’d smile at me, eyes still closed, as soon as the aroma of coffee roused you from sleep.
At lunch, it was a dress that did it. Dark blue and covered in little white spots, worn by the woman who stood in front of me in the queue at the supermarket. You had a dress just like it. At least, I think you did; it looked like something you would wear. But I suppose I never paid enough attention. Your wardrobe now is a hazy memory – a blur of blues and whites and greys and every now and again, when I insisted it suited you, a splash of red. Continue reading “I Remember | Flash Fiction”