On the tenth blink, he’d know.

Under his hand, his boy’s thin neck, his bent back. All the years patting, bathing, cradling this back – this frail curve was the shape of all his vicarious yearning.

Was there any higher love?

His breath froze, his arm rose. The facade shattered.


Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this micro-story. Let me know what you think in the comments below.
The 50-Word Stories are based on a surrealist word game, in which a complete story must be told in precisely 50 words. – Jen

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