Summer’s sultry betrayal made me want you, your face and body desirable through heat haze, your sun-kissed words sweet like Florida oranges. I gorged on them, blinded by the ocean glare, and I became lovesick, sinking in marshmallow sand. In the evenings, the canopy of shooting stars and the campfire flames made you look older, and I imagined us eating autumn fruit pies, looking through photos of our wedding and our kids, wanting your arms around me, but now they’re planted either side of me in the cool sand that’s hard under my back, smoke weeping from the campfire logs, and I look at you, wondering if you can feel my gooseflesh as you rub against me. Under grey clouds you look clearer: autumn has always been honest, and you look like the ghost of the man I thought I loved, your rough words cooking-apple-sharp, cramping my stomach which you’re growing heavier on, becoming more frantic on, and you don’t hear me say stop, your ears plugged with old sunscreen and saltwater, and the clouds release with you. I whisper to the rain to wash away what’s just happened, to rinse you off with summer. But autumn is as truthful as ever, and as my belly swells in time with pumpkins and turkeys, I know I’ll see your face mixed with mine, small and in my arms next summer.
Rebecca Klassen is co-editor of The Phare and a Best of the Net 2025 nominee. She has won the London Independent Story Prize for flash fiction, and was shortlisted for this year’s Alpine Fellowship and Laurie Lee Prize. Her work has featured in Mslexia, Riggwelter, The Brussels Review, Gooseberry Pie, Roi Faineant Press, and Amphibian. Her stories have been performed at numerous literature festivals and on BBC Radio. She works and lives in Gloucestershire, UK.
ManilaLitMag 