Rose

by Jim Tomlinson
100 words


For weeks after your hospital stay, I brought you roses, a dozen each day. Online you bought me an inflatable lady, named her 'Rose,' too, your delightful, sick-wife humor.

You unfurled Rose's vinyl skin, uncapped the plastic tube tucked into her back, and slipped it between your pallid lips. How long did you take, inflating her, pausing breathlessly, yet refusing help?

You're gone now. It's been one long, hollow year.

I find Rose in our closet. She's saggy and sad. I pull her close and uncap the plastic tube. On my cheek, my neck, I feel again your whisper-soft breath.

Jim Tomlinson's short story collection, Things Kept, Things Left Behind , won the 2006 Iowa Short Fiction Award. Check out his MySpace page and website.

Copyright © 2007 Jim Tomlinson