Bereft of Leaves

Photo courtesy of Dawn M. Miller

Indira was mesmerized by the leaves. Perhaps more taken by them than with Michael, her coffee date. He had turned out to be the ubiquitous “nice” guy, with a job, an apartment, one roommate and a dog. He didn’t live with his parents, which already made him a step up from the last one. Her own parents, who had made the arrangement, would be pleased to hear — they thought every step up was a step forward.

She played idly with the cup. There had been leaves in her childhood. Leaves to shield her from the showers, and also from the heavy heat of the sun. This city, bereft of trees, was also bereft of leaves. Though flowers could be found in plastic at every corner market, ready to be given in place of words, she missed the leaves the most.

A piece for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

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