That Night

By Louis Kummerer

I the newly minted darkness, with house lights twinkling on distant hills and the wind murmuring secrets to the trees, we lay side by side, pinned in place by the stars.

Your closeness engulfed me. You permeated the air like a fragrant mist. I breathed in deeply and held my breath.

You turned to me and whispered, as if you were revealing a truth too sacred to be spoken out loud.

“One day, we will forget how this is,” you said, “We will only remember the echoes.”

Your words, delicate as lacewings, flitted away, vanished into the night.

Now, from time to time, the memory of that moment re-ignites. I sift through shards, try to piece together the fragments. But I see only flashes: your name, your face. I cannot resurrect you—and that night.

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Louis Kummerer is a technical writer working and living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work has been published in CaféLit, Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bristol Noir, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words.