Futile Gestures

Leslie struck at the hand as it approached her face.

"Don't touch me."

"There's a leaf in your hair."

"I can take care of myself."

Steven remembered when they cared for each other. He'd cook dinner on nights she got home late. She packed a lunch when he had fieldwork, a chocolate bar hidden at the bottom of the bag.

Those thoughtful gestures became less frequent as the fights occurred more often. She perceived every request as an assault on her freedom. She likely had her own side, but he'd stopped caring long ago.

Steven walked away without another word.

Surprise

He always smiled when she appeared. Today, he also winked.

No one else gave her a second look. At school, girls called her names. Boys threw stones.

She placed a chocolate bar on the belt. He rang in the price. She paid.

“Not getting your favourite?” he asked.

“You’re out,” she answered.

“It won’t happen again.”

She tore the wrapper off exiting the store. Took a mouthful. As she started walking home, a car pulled up behind her. The driver’s window opened.

“Found these in the back of the store,” he said handing her a caramel chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. Her recent work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories and espresso stories.