Flash Fiction: Deep Lines (200 words)

We signed our names in the wet sand, every line made of deep, stuttering shadow in the light of the fire. You dug in deep, carved the letters into the ground with a wet piece of wood washed up from somewhere else. I drew my name with bare fingers, and the sand caught under my fingernails.

When we were finished, you brushed off your hands. I rubbed my palms down my jeans. You glanced over our work, as if you were looking for misspellings.

The tide was going out. For a few hours, our signatures would stay. I wondered whether they would blow away when the sand dried, or wash away when the tide came back in. Idly.

The sand didn’t matter much. The durability didn’t matter at all. We only needed to see our names written out, the promise made into every sort of memory.

You smiled.

I wanted to, but the motion didn’t seem large enough, and I folded my hands together to keep from bursting out of my skin.

“From now on,” You said, and looked at me, to seal the deal.

“We settle for absolutely nothing,” I murmured.

You nodded, and I took another sure breath.


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