Pink Flowers

Microfiction

The old man leans forward, chair creaking, bony hand beckoning. “C’mere, darlin’.”

My bare feet grip dogwood roots.

A too-white smile. Sweat dripping from his forehead.

Summer’s hot breath slips between my knees. Pink flowers wilt on overheated concrete.

“Come closer,” he says. “I’m listening.”

I haven’t said a word.