Darling, flash fiction by Zsofia Kremer at Spillwords.com



written by: Zsofia Kremer


The first frost of the year is sparkling in the last sunny rays of autumn.

Distanced by the edge of the forest stands a house.

On entering the cozy warmth, something fantastic lingering in the air can be smelled, it is not the usual smell of a home lived in; not the comforting heavy smell of a warm dish cooking on the stove. It is neither the freshly washed laundry nor the smell of baby wipes. Suddenly, a whiff of fresh flowery goodness and untouched spices heavily smack us in the face. The white walls are slightly tinted and have a creamy yellow overtone, the work of sunlight over the years.

Covered in a considerable amount of dust, a pair of wonderful burgundy leather heels lie dormant by the door, just like a defeated beast taking a rest after a big hunt.

Unopened piles of letters on the kitchen table.

Listen closely now.

The man of the house is whispering to himself:

This must be perfect, it has to be perfect.
I cannot fail her again.
Yes, he says, and sniffs in the air – this is good.
So delicate, just like her.

Suddenly, he stands up and walks around, fanning his face delicately with 3 paper strips, while taking gentle breaths in the air.

Yes, almost there, not too far now my darling.

He then suddenly stops, and stares in front of him at the wooden floorboards, which used to be covered in white lacquered paint some odd twenty years ago, but now the paint was peeling off, missing in some places revealing the raw wood underneath, still very beautiful.

He quickly walks back to his table with a stable long gait, it only takes two steps. He sits down, and picks up a large disposable pipette and dips it into a glass bottle, which has Saffron engraved on it then he lifts the pipette and drops a single drop of the golden liquid onto a paper strip. He places it next to the other ones in his hand and continues fanning with them while taking big whiffs of the balsamic air.

Sniff, ——————-sniff, sniff.
Ah much better, there we go, he says.
Sniff, sniff, sniff.

– “We are nearly there darling.”

He stands up and continues to ritualistically fan his face while pacing the room, stopping from time to time, but then always continues circling in agitation.

Sniff, ——————-sniff, sniff.



No, he shakes his head in disapproval.

So close.

Come just a little closer, we are almost there

He walks back to his table and repeats the previous step, this time using a different bottle of shimmering watery liquid and pipette.
This is very important, one shall not use the same pipette in order to avoid contamination. Tools laid on his table, very orderly, clean, not a speck of dust can be found, tiny little glass bottles containing juices in the price of liquid gold.
He has always been very meticulous when it comes to his craft.

He stands up once again, and the sniffing begins while he continues pacing with the paper strips.

He stops and stares at that spot on the wooden floor again, muttering to himself:

Wait, don’t go yet.”

And suddenly, as one single tear rolls down his face and drops onto the floor with unusual heaviness, the first rays of spring push through the white linen curtains.

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