LUKEWARM
The silent child wrapped her hand over the smooth, shiny chrome surface. Cold waterfalls crashed upon the child’s skin. She flinched. The faucet's letter C began to peel like third degree burnt skin.
“I got my tonsils out.” The silent child peered into her best friend's mouth.
"You should get yours out too. You get so much ice cream."
Images of peppermint choc-chip sprinkled with hundreds and thousands popped up. The silent child swallowed her saliva as if the ice cream were already in her mouth, melting, hoping to solve the drought problem.
The silent child spread snow along her wrinkled arm. She licked it off like a snowplough. She recoiled as if her upper body and arm were disconnected. Before the red night, snow was white and clean, now it was speckled with flaky, pink impurities.
Freezing water, ice cream, and snow charred. Winter attempted to extinguish the flames, but the red night lingered. The silent child cupped her hands over her head like shrink-wrap over a box—a failed attempt at smothering memories.
°°°
Time heals all wounds, said the remaining few, but the teenager only believed that when she didn’t look at herself in the mirror.
The teenager said hello, goodbye, I’m fine. But the i and the n dragged like fingernails down a blackboard.
One winter’s day, the bedroom window chilled the tip of the teen’s nose. Cold. The palm of her hand wiped the circles, squares and rectangles. Very, very cold. She climbed out of her window and shivered. Very, very, very cold. Last winter, a dense sweat soaked her body while she made snow angels.
Eighteen birthday candles stood on a birthday cake. Eggs danced in boiling water. The fireplace crackled and warmed.
The woman wrapped her hand over the smooth, shiny chrome surface. Chilly water trickled upon the woman’s skin. She lifted her head and watched her smiling reflection in the mirror.
Yoo hoo, I’m back. Red night blues sometimes knock on the amygdala’s door, but the woman leaves the memory out in icy conditions, isolated, inhibiting it to form connections.
Everything is back where it belongs. Winter is cold. Summer is hot. Cold water runs from cold water taps. Hot water runs from hot water taps, and the woman is relieved she didn’t have to call the plumber.
Isabelle B.L is a writer and teacher based in France. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Discretionary Love, Alternate Route and elsewhere.
