Melissa Bull

10 May


The dress blushed. Henry felt abashed. He wasn’t used to public displays of affection. Fibreoptic letters latticed the rim of the girl’s dress, scrolling its hem in a double retro shadow of old school datatext crossed with needlepoint: HOT HOT HOT HOT worked its bright way against her bare knees. The dress went dark before a valentine heart blossomed against her chest. The heart split and reformed, pumping pink-blue-red to the remastered rhythm of The Police’s Every Breath You Take. Henry pulled at the neck of his plaid shirt. He felt out of place. He turned his back on the girl in the dress. Probably the ebullient signage wasn’t intended for him. The barmaid moved toward him, her glowing headband haloing her face in the tangerine softness of a Rembrandt.
synapsemtl“What do you want?” she asked.
synapsemtl“I’ll just have a beer. Whatever.”
synapsemtl“Pint?”
synapsemtl “Pint.” He took a bill out of his front pocket. Paid her.
synapsemtl “I think the lady there likes you,” she said.
synapsemtl “Maybe.”

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from “The Knockoff Eclipse”
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Melissa Bull works as a writer and editor. She lives in Montreal.

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