She collided into him. An accident, she later confessed, a glint in
her eye, a little lie.

They flew down the macadam road, ribbons of wispy cirrus
overhead.

Fire rainbows. Inferolateral arcs. Ice-crystals. She gasped.

She zoomed past him.

They’d met at university.

First year love? Youthful passion? Who knew? he mused.

She hit a bump and the picnic basket broke free. Elderberry jam,
Hackleback caviar, the cheap champagne he’d brought.
Silverware. Embroidered napkins. Shattered fluted glasses.

Ruination, he thought, and looked up, in frustration.

She was coasting downhill, hands-free. Wind tasseling her hair.

Her arms high, framed like goalposts.

# # #

Bill Cook is a writer, commercial building inspector, and sometimes avid home brewer residing in a small community within the Sierra Pelona Mountain Range. He has had work published in Juked, elimae, Tin Postcard Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Summerset Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and in Dzanc’s anthology Best of the Web 2009 and upcoming in The New Flash Fiction Review.

Photo credit: Terri Malone