Ivy will never forgive me and why should she? That girl’s a looker, a definite work of art. And yet every time we get together I can’t help but drag her down to my level. I cradle her adorable curves against my body and I try hard to perform. Sigh… It goes wrong.
Johnny introduced us a few years ago. That guy’s one hell of a matchmaker. But I wonder if he ever holds his head in his hands, mortified, when he comes across stray echoes of the damage he’s done?
Like with Ivy. That girl could’ve been a wow, had her pick from the very best; seen the bright lights and led fashions. All that potential for grace and invention that lay coiled up inside her, humming with anticipation at its eventual, inevitable, ecstatic release…
Instead, when my trembling hands clutch her close, fingers blistered and stumbling with schoolboyish eagerness, I can only eke out the worst version of Bigmouth Strikes Again in history.
Sorry, Ivy. Sorry, Johnny.
This piece of flash fiction was written in response to the Daily Prompt: The Name’s The Thing
Have you ever named an inanimate object? (Your car? Your laptop? The volleyball that kept you company while you were stranded in the ocean?) Share the story of at least one object with which you’re on a first-name basis.