Flash Fiction: Mabel Could Wait
Jul. 30th, 2009 03:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordwhackerWritten for Word #116 over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15_minute_fic
Mabel Could Wait (flash, 421 words)
Mabel didn't regret what she did. Not for an instant.
The sun was rising swiftly over her shady back yard, sending long, twisted shadows in streaks of dark green toward her house. She had always been an early riser, ready to pop up with the flowers and suck the energy from the most optimistic part of the day. It made her warm inside, nourished her sense of grown-upness and competence.
In a minute the water boiled and she padded across the quiet kitchen to make her tea. Ten years ago she would have laughed to see her future self, literally barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. It hadn't been her plan back then. Then she'd been starting her Master's and reading second wave feminism and wondering why the world had drifted so far away from that powerful stance, the knife edge of certainty and control.
It hadn't made her a lesbian, but it had made her feel smug about it, if a little guilty for having an out that the poor straight girls didn't have. She had a 'get out of heteronormativity free' card, an automatic answer to the question of penetration and ownership and power. At least, she thought so then.
And Mary hadn't changed all that, either. It had been Mabel's waning interest in overbearing politics that seemed to strain under their own weight. She'd even dated a guy for a short time, though sex with him had sealed the deal about that pesky lesbian thing.
She wanted, and needed, for a woman to be the one doing dirty things with her, sneaking kisses in the car before getting dropped off for work. The hand that slid saucily up her skirt was a woman's hand. It made sense to her, hit some indescribable part of her.
Mabel rubbed her swolen belly and breathed in the vapours from her tea. It was a good morning, warm, the dew sparkling on the lawn, the leaves of the trees, the fly of the tent that was pitched in the back yard.
She had meant what she'd said: just because she was the pregnant one didn't mean that she was going to roll over and take it. She loved Mary, so much that it hurt sometimes, kicking her keenly the way the baby kicked, a sign that it was there. But she couldn't ignore Mary's kicks.
Blowing on the surface of her tea to cool it, Mabel took a sip, slurping to keep the liquid cool. Maybe Mary would apologise this morning. Then she could come back inside.
But Mabel could wait.
15_minute_ficMabel Could Wait (flash, 421 words)
Mabel didn't regret what she did. Not for an instant.
The sun was rising swiftly over her shady back yard, sending long, twisted shadows in streaks of dark green toward her house. She had always been an early riser, ready to pop up with the flowers and suck the energy from the most optimistic part of the day. It made her warm inside, nourished her sense of grown-upness and competence.
In a minute the water boiled and she padded across the quiet kitchen to make her tea. Ten years ago she would have laughed to see her future self, literally barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. It hadn't been her plan back then. Then she'd been starting her Master's and reading second wave feminism and wondering why the world had drifted so far away from that powerful stance, the knife edge of certainty and control.
It hadn't made her a lesbian, but it had made her feel smug about it, if a little guilty for having an out that the poor straight girls didn't have. She had a 'get out of heteronormativity free' card, an automatic answer to the question of penetration and ownership and power. At least, she thought so then.
And Mary hadn't changed all that, either. It had been Mabel's waning interest in overbearing politics that seemed to strain under their own weight. She'd even dated a guy for a short time, though sex with him had sealed the deal about that pesky lesbian thing.
She wanted, and needed, for a woman to be the one doing dirty things with her, sneaking kisses in the car before getting dropped off for work. The hand that slid saucily up her skirt was a woman's hand. It made sense to her, hit some indescribable part of her.
Mabel rubbed her swolen belly and breathed in the vapours from her tea. It was a good morning, warm, the dew sparkling on the lawn, the leaves of the trees, the fly of the tent that was pitched in the back yard.
She had meant what she'd said: just because she was the pregnant one didn't mean that she was going to roll over and take it. She loved Mary, so much that it hurt sometimes, kicking her keenly the way the baby kicked, a sign that it was there. But she couldn't ignore Mary's kicks.
Blowing on the surface of her tea to cool it, Mabel took a sip, slurping to keep the liquid cool. Maybe Mary would apologise this morning. Then she could come back inside.
But Mabel could wait.
