M.T. Fallon

She sets the door bolt and steps out of her flats. Her date advances into the apartment and scans the collages hanging in the hall. He waits before the curio shelves, opening nesting dolls till the littlest sibling sits in his hand.

Come and sit, she says.

He comes to the loveseat, turning to the candle sconces repeating along the wall. A strand of gossamer flutters from sconce to sconce.

I enjoy talking with you, he says.

Me too.

She cinches her skirt beneath her thighs, lapses into an unguarded smile when he tilts to read the book spines on the end table. He takes the Magritte to his lap.

I would like to see what you look like, he says.

What I look like?

What you look like.

I'm right here.

Do you have a picture?

No, perhaps in the other room.

Wait, I have a camera.

He kneels to take the picture. There is a lilt in her smile, a fallen wonder in her eyes. He reviews the image.

Ah, there you are.

Yes, here I am, she laughs.

Beautiful, he says, looking at the picture.

Thank you, she says, leaning to look.

So beautiful, he says.

M. T. Fallon lives in Colorado. Recent fiction appears or will appear in Beloit Fiction Journal, elimae, Hobart, Opium, and Unsaid.

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Photo on page main page courtesy of Zen Sutherland

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