She only listened to B-sides of albums. “It’s where all the secrets are.”
“What’s your secret?” I asked her one day, before I thought I loved her, before I’d even kissed her. She looked at the album in her hand and smiled.
“One night, I was riding my bike home from work. The sky was fading to a raw sienna.
“When I was crossing the Route 81 overpass, the one on Bartell, I noticed a man. He was leaning on the guardrail. I pulled to the side of the road to watch him. He kept placing his hands on the rail and after a moment he let out a sound, somewhere between a scream and a moan.”
I looked at her face, expecting to see her cheeks flushed, but they were colorless, as always.
“I could just see his silhouette now, the sun disappeared. He leaned back over the rail. I only heard a faint thump when he hit the ground.
“I got back on my bike and rode home,” she said, her eyes wide as if she were telling the story of something heroic. “I heard on the news he was a teacher,” she said. I took a sip of my beer and smiled, because that was the only thing I could do.
“Is that secret good enough?” she asked. “I have others.”
Sarah Squires is an author living in Arlington, VA. She currently manages the flash fiction blog, Precisely25.com. In addition to writing, Sarah loves books, bourbon, and baking. If you would like to contact Sarah, email her at firstname.lastname@example.org or find her on Twitter: @svswrites. Her website: http://http://sarahsquires.com.