Dotty Thinks of Love: Flash Fiction by Kenneth Weene

Dotty Thinks of Love 

Kenneth Weene 

She loves him. Dotty tells herself every day. In the afternoon, sitting with her coffee, in the breakfast nook, the sun shadowing the backyard and playing with the Japanese apple tree, and Dotty holding that picture, the special one, the one from Durango. 

The two of them—well three if she counted the Harley—and Scott always counted his hog, so Dotty did, too. Him looking fine and buff and filled with life and ready to take it all on. And she, her hair mussed and no makeup, but still young—yes, young and ready. 

The two of them in matching denim, and her jacket open enough to reveal that bright pink halter-top that he loved when she wore because it came off so easily in his hands, strong, long-fingered hands always crusted with grease from his bike, but always gentle when they made love. 

They made love often in those days. She had never been—not until she had met Scott—much about sex; but he had unleashed desire. 

Perhaps it was the bike, the riding behind him, her arms clutched around his arced back, their bodies one as they raced and leaned. Her womanhood vibrating with the roar and the road. Arousal? Yes, she, Dotty, had learned what life could bring. 

One last smile: her shoes. High-heeled. Bright red. Nothing fit for the open road, but Scott was a leg man, an ankle lover. In bed or lying somewhere on the ground—a cemetery or a golf course or just a pasture watched by placid cows or once by skittish sheep—Scott always started by caressing her feet, her ankles, and then worked his way up her legs. Yes, there were smiles, warm smiles in the memory. 

She loves him. Dotty tells herself every day. Then, she slips the picture back into its place, under the fancy silverware. She washes her mug and with a last glance out the window—perhaps with a wish that there could be milling cows or even bleating sheep outside—Dotty sets the table. 

Tyler will be home soon. She no longer thinks of love.