Flashtober, 2026

Shackles

The wool of her sweater is itchy against my face. I like the way she sips her drink, and the space where the ends of her hair dust her shoulders. I like the wrinkle of her eyebrows.

She’s busy and won’t look up. But I can feel her attention like a warmth, or a glow that spreads through me.

She is soft and harsh and lovely. She is sharp and sweet and sour candy.

Coffee breath and honey eyes.

I tangle my fingers in a strand of her hair.

Is not the red string of fate another kind of shackle?