1. I am a cold bitch but I’m hot as all get out. I shave everything and that means everything: no landing strip. You didn’t believe me and that was your loss. You unlock the car doors with a click and wait for me to rid you of my presence. On the way home you didn’t say anything and you reminded me of the weirdo in the movie that ends up alone in a baseball cap so the brim will hide his sad little eyes. That’s all right, I got my Garth Brooks and lollysicles in the freezer. Don’t touch me.
2. I am an international financier with an interest in wines and exclusive hotel lounges, preferably with a waiter who bends over attentively. There are a few things I can’t tell you. I’m fifty and I live with my mother. When I talk about that my nose itches terribly and I have to scratch it. If I like you I will call your telephone repeatedly. If you tell me it’s not going to work out I will continue to call you repeatedly and when you don’t answer I will email you, text you and voicemail you, warning you of how foolish your decision will appear to you in the future. You are young now.
3. When your heart gets gunked up I’m the guy who gets it going again. The hands that hold this fork and knife to stab this goat’s cheese tart callipered a beating ventricle and kept an artery from spurting out before I came to meet you, just two hours ago. That’s very nice, what you do, if it makes you happy. A heart doctor’s life is hard. I would like to tell you something. I’ve been thinking and I would like to see you again. I hope to build a home with someone. Soon.
JR Fenn writes to the screams of seagulls in southwest England and teaches English and Creative Writing at Plymouth University. JR’s flash fiction has appeared or will soon appear in The Other Room, Short, Fast, and Deadly, and PANK.