Welcome to another Friday Flash Fiction.
This piece was the development of a very short piece (sub-200 words) I had submitted for a competition. I wanted to explore the idea a little further and see what happened.
I toyed with the idea of subbing it out again but am leaving it on the digital practice pile.
I dislodged your glasses the first time we kissed, tripping over the hidden arms of the frames as I ran my hands through your hair. Unseated physically and linguistically, I fumbled an apology.
“Romance inhibitors,” you said pushing the glasses over your forehead, collecting your fringe, before taking them off.
The kiss interrupted we drew away from each other. You felt behind your ears the indent of a new paragraph.
“I’ve worn glasses for years,” you said. “Never really noticed it before.”
You drew me in again and before our lips cautiously brushed, I wondered how you could see without your glasses; a stupid thing to think because our eyes were closed. My fingers returned to the place behind your ear and traced the indentation, a small eroded furrow, and I stopped, retreating my lips from yours.
Your face, now naked without adornment, I saw two more dents, small and red, on either side of your nose. The slight weight of pressure bridging your face giving you the chance to see.
Over the years I watched the indentations change shape with each new pair of glasses, watch you adjust to how the new frames sat on your nose and behind the ears. You pinch your nose when you buy new frames, adjusting to a new bridge; push them back up your nose when you’re sweaty and they slip down when you lean forward. You push them onto your head when you read a book.
You never really get to see it, except when you look in the mirror, but with each new pair of glasses I create a new character: the bookish librarian, a 50s executive, the hipster folk musician. Only when we retire to bed do I see the character removed when you put your glasses beside the clock radio on your bedside table. Your face is no longer framed by what I impose upon it; the only evidence the two small, red indentations on your nose.
On the couch I slip under your arm, fit into the shape of your body, perhaps worn as smooth as the spot behind your ears and wonder if we have worn a furrow between my legs each time we make love. I feel the shape of you within me, the pacing of your movement when you’re above me and I focus on the bridge of your nose. Or when I sit astride you and move with my own rhythm. Have I worn you down through the repetition of our lovemaking?
Now I turn the wedding band around my finger, notice the furrowed shape encircling, evidence of the presence of you in my life.
I still run my finger along the indentation behind your ear, searching for that first kiss. But you hate it when I dislodge your glasses, especially while you’re watching TV.
I’ve learned to wait until the ad breaks.