No Ref
4th Flash-Style Flash Fiction Submission
This was written in less than 3 hours in a Flash-Style Flash Fiction battle against .
We shared the prompt: 1969, Harlem, A toy rocket
This is the 2nd draft of the revised story.
Edie backstroked inside the sheets. The silk splashed against her skin.
He was using the bathroom on the third floor of his townhouse around the corner from Sylvia’s, where she worked, where they met.
The whistle of his pissing disturbed her. She distracted herself with his curved and muscular back.
Emerson turned and slid his hands underneath his armpits; a macho-man-pose she knew hid shyness. Almost gave her the giggles.
Men becoming shy didn’t surprise her. They were often shy after sex. No matter how aggressive or confident or smooth, they emptied the costume when the show ended.
She didn’t bother to ask him about the super bowl. She had really wanted to ask about Joe Namath but knew better. To ask about anything, really.
Emerson stuttered telling her about the dusty smell of the apartment, complaining about his help.
Edie thought the stowaway needed a makeover more than a cleaning.
He had fumbled his words the whole night, becoming most animated unloading about his wife and children, his hands on the nape of her knees.
He rejoined her in bed, lying on his side. “God, your hair is so soft and black.” He glided his hands across the surface of her afro like a planet, and confidence rolled down her shoulders.
She told him, “You were gentle.”
Uncertainty arrested his face: receding hairline, terrified eyes, elfish ears, an otherwise handsome, masculine face that reminded her of Poitier. More rugged. He could kill Indians. She kissed him three times before he could blink.
Emerson relaxed his head into the palm of his pillow. Confidence infiltrated. He thought of her mouth; her front tooth was high in her gums, reminding him to make those dental appointments for his sons.
She could sense she had decreased in his eyes. She hated him.
“I have to get my son a birthday gift,” he said.
Oh, he was back to his family.
The window across the room had green leaves blowing and tossing against the wind. Edie remembered the concerts at the Mount Morris Park last week. People were calling it Black Woodstock.
Emerson massaged the top of his left shoulder. “You been paying attention to them astronauts?”
“Whitey chasing pixie dust.”
He scoffed, “Defying science ain’t pixie dust.” Emerson became the Super Bowl Champion. Edie rubbed the knee he had injured the previous season.
“You should get your son a toy rocket.” She jiggled his penis and laughed all eyebrows.
Walking the next day, wearing her favorite go-go boots and her red and dark grey leather backpack for nursing school, Edie noticed a Korean man dragging a kid looking curious but confused in a Superman t-shirt underneath the Apollo.
The crossing guard waved for her to walk.
This is extremely well-written.
"No matter how aggressive or confident or smooth, they emptied the costume when the show ended." Winner.🤌🏼