Yellow Pain


The apartment itself was no more than a glorified closet, so the closets themselves were bound to be tiny.

“You’re going to have to keep it neat,” she’d said, when they moved in. “Not be your normal messy-pup self.”

“You love this messy-pup really though,” he’d said, kissing her behind the ear as he loved to do.

Standing in front of the closet now, she felt the warm tingle of the kiss behind her ear and down through the very centre of herself. Then the sight of those three yellow shirts, bulk purchased in the Macy’s sale, was like a stabbing.

She closed the door, as she’d done a hundred times, failing to do what she must.



*Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who supplied the photo above as a prompt for the Friday Fictioneers. And thank you for reading