Something Borrowed

Flash Fiction inspired by a friend & neighbor.

Note: the formatting here is intentional, but since screen sizes differ, you may find that turning your phone or other mobile device horizontally will yield a better reading experience.

SOMETHING BORROWED

I’ve never trusted the phrase
borrow a cup of sugar.

It belongs to a softer time than this one:
     a time when people trust each other
          just a little too easily
     a time when doors were left unlocked;
     a time when nothing came with NDAs
          or terms of service.

In the here-and-now,
nothing gets borrowed
without a reason.

Nothing changes hands
without a little risk.

A neighbor doesn’t need sugar.
     A neighbor needs plausible deniability.
          A neighbor needs an alibi.

The message came –
far too late for innocence.
     Short.
          Careful.
               It knows walls are listening.

I read it once,
     weight settling in my chest
     somewhere behind my ribs.

Outside, the toothy cold
     gnawed its way through my coat,
     latching onto my bones.

The haloed moon hung low and pale:
     snow was on the way –
     trouble not far behind.

The air felt tight and waiting.
The night held something back.

They were waiting at the corner,
     standing under a flickering streetlight
     half-made of shadow,
          breath fogging the air,
          shoulders hunched,
               the light carving them into
               hard angles and long shadows.

We didn’t exchange names.

Names have a way of sticking around.

“You got it?” they asked,
     voice lowered
          eyes flicking to the empty road.

I reached into my bag.

The exchange was quick
and clean
and without hesitation.

Our fingers missed each other:
     enough space to keep professional,
          close enough to feel the heat,
               far enough away to stay alive.

The wind kicked up,
     rattling bare branches overhead – 
           they cackled at us.

The snow hadn’t started yet, 
but it was close.

I could feel it,
     hovering just beyond the moment,
          ready to fall
          and erase the evidence.

Somewhere, a car door slammed.
     Too loud.
          Too close.

We waited it out.

Then exhaled,
     relief cracking:
          thin ice on a large pond.

Snowfall:
     a few flakes at first,
          testing the ground,
               deciding whether to commit.

I turned
     before they could say
     anything else.

That’s how you survive:
     you don’t linger,
     you don’t look back.

By morning, the street would be clean.
     Blameless.
     Unimpeachable.

Much later,
I stood in my kitchen,
     recalling what they’d said:

“You saved me.”

I allowed a smile.

“You saved me from
the most boring-ass chili
ever.”

I put the jars in the sink
and added cumin and chili powder
to the shopping list.