Not Her Boyfriend

Flash Friday

In Not Her Boyfriend, a woman brings a man to a party. Everyone knows what he is doing to her. No one quite says it.

He is not. He calls her all the time. He stays over, yes. They have sex. Great sex too. Post fight. But he is not. They fight a lot. She cries a lot. He says that they are done a lot. But they are not. She does not wear that dress now, the bird print one she loves. He thinks it`s twee. Their kids have met. But he is not. They fight. She calls me. Daily. She tells me: I can´t lose him. But I can´t ask: Why?

She asks: can I bring him to the party? We don´t say: no. He makes you ugly cry. He makes you cry too often. We say: ok. They bring apple strudel. Fresh from the oven. Still hot. Which he is not. He walks weird. His eyes are raisins. We exchange looks. If only he was hot. Then we´d get it. He says little. If only he talked. If only he gave us something to make us think: this is why.

He sits with the other men. The partners, lovers, husbands. He talks a little. His laugh is shrill. Her eyes search our faces, nervously. Our faces are shuttered. We talk of menopause and Trump. Other ugly things. Fuss over the kids. Oh, look you spilled your juice! We cut the meat into tiny-teeth size chunks. The child with the bumblebee t-shirt asks her: So what is he? The table falls silent. His raisin eyes lock onto hers. Her daughter says: He is her boyfriend. Yes, she says her voice pressed flat. He is. His eyes unlock. She will call the next day, asking: So what did you think? And I will weave around and dodge an answer. For fear of losing her. I will wish that I was a not an adult. Too much has already not been said. I will say: I wish you´d worn that bird print dress.     

“Not Her Boyfriend” first appeared in Flash Frontier.

Dinner Party domestic life fiction flash fiction friendship literary fiction litro stories relationships silence women