A to Z Challenge: B is for Boléro

Today's flash fiction is inspired by Ravel's Boléro.

Boléro

She walks with purpose, placing each foot carefully in front of her. 

He sits silently at the bar. The glass lamps glow red. He lifts his eyes.

She holds her head high, her dark hair swept back. Her neck is pale, tinted pink by the light. 

He orders another drink. 

She sheds her cape and sits two seats down at the bar.

He stands, stiff from routine and drink. He turns away from her.

She gestures and a drink is set in front of her. Red wine.

He's seen her here before.

She's seen him here before.

He turns, smoothing his hair back.

She pivots on her chair. Her black dress shivers as she moves, catching the light.

He lifts his jacket from the back of his chair and shakes the wrinkles out. 

She lifts her wine.

He leans against the bar and finishes his drink.

She wipes lipstick from the rim of her glass. Red like wine. Red like the light.

He turns toward her.

She smiles softly. Her dark eyes shine. She stands.

He puts on his jacket.

She walks with purpose toward the door.

He follows silently. 

A to Z Challenge: A is for Antediluvian

Hey guys! I'm going to be doing the A to Z Blogging Challenge this year even with my new job and my #ClassicsProject. Am I crazy? I'll let you know. Each entry will revolve around a single word and be an original piece of flash fiction.

Antediluvian

The flood swept me away when I was ten. It came roaring through my living room and picked up the toys I'd left behind. A doll. A set of blocks. It took my childish things and left me empty, soaked. Saturated with salt water and blood.

They tore the house down. I never saw it again. For me, it only exists before the flood.

The wallpaper was warm like honey. Momma read her books and listened to the blues. Daddy... Daddy was like the water. Soft and calm on the heavy, humid days. Terrifying and unpredictable when the morning sky turned red.

He painted the walls with his emotions. Our kitchen was yellow and bright. He'd done that room on a good day. The living room was a heavy red-purple. He painted the living room on my ninth birthday. Then he came to my room and painted my walls with blood.

There's a before and there's an after and there's a vast ocean of crashing water between them.

Momma and I live with her momma now. Grandma is old like an ancient oak tree. Her face shows the lines of the lean seasons and the floods. She smiles like she means it, and nobody says Daddy's name anymore. The one time Momma talked about him, she said he'd been swept out to sea with the levies. Grandma spat on the dirt yard and said "Good riddance."

So that's how I see him. He was the flood. He crashed through our lives and settled back into the abyss.

And now there's only an empty room. The toys are gone and the honey wallpaper bulges with decay. This room exists in my belly. My childish things are gone, swept out to sea, and I am alone in this room of salt water and blood. But I smile and don't mention Daddy.

He tore me down and I never saw him again. For me, I only existed before the flood.