Flash Fiction, by Denicia Jones

Untitled, by Denicia Jones

I saw you through the bare, barren, fragile branches of the winter trees. The rain from last night had turned to ice, and you were still outside, shooting basketballs off the backboard of your brother’s basketball hoop. The wind carried away your droplets of sweat and dropped it into my upturned palms. I brought each droplet to my lips and kissed them as they came. Tasted your perseverance and inhaled your wonders. Every once in a while, you would look up, and turn around, basketball in hand, the soft gaze of my eyes a weight on your shoulder. But all you would see is the complicated puzzle of the branches as I faded into the night, and unable to distinguish between the shadows of the darkness, you turned around and continued to shoot basketballs.

Swish.