by Neil Clark
… my head made holes in the ceiling, then my neck tore strips through the beautiful mansard roof of our perfect imperfect home. I told you I was sorry. I told you if you wanted to go and live somewhere that protected you from the elements, I would understand. You said it was cool, “We can sleep beneath these stars and wake up when the world wakes up.”
… my palette regressed, and I started consuming nothing but shrubbery. I pined for the days when adventurous eating was our thing. We had raw bison heart on our honeymoon, kept a replenishment of century eggs in our basement, ate blowfish prepared by trainee sushi chefs. “Don’t worry,” you said when I presented you with a platter of tree, served three ways, for the third night in a row. “I can branch out with you.”
… I grew concerned about your fear of heights. Your heartrate goes through the roof at the sight of a step ladder. When you mustered the courage to climb up and visit me on top of the ruins I had made, I nuzzled your beating chest. Then we kissed, and you told me you would never come down from this high.
NEIL CLARK is a writer from Edinburgh, Scotland. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and Best of the Net, and can be found in places such as Jellyfish Review, Wigleaf and Hobart After Dark. His debut collection of cosmic fiction is called ‘Time. Wow.’ and is out now on Back Patio Press. Find him on Twitter @NeilRClark or visit neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com for a full list of publications.
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