Thank you to Rochelle for providing Friday Fictioneers!
That summer I heard my first bobwhite. “I love that call,” I said.
We sat on a boulder, our feet dangling into the trickling creek.
You tried to kiss me, but I pushed you away. Your face flushed, and you clenched my wrist in an iron-hold, twisting so it burned.
“Don’t ever push me.”
“I’m with Bobby,” I said, yanking my hand free and then tried to sooth my wrist in the cold water.
You stomped away, your footsteps crunching on old leaves.
In the morning when I left the cabin, a bloodied bobwhite lay silently on the wood porch.
Sascha Darlington 6/19/2018