Remember when we were young, when you draped your arm over my stomach every morning, when your fingers rolled over ribs, steady as tides? I still feel your indentation in my flesh even though our love dried up, baked by rising temperatures, cracked in drought.
Our sedimentary bed hardened to limestone, its mattress flattened and folded by tectonic plates that birthed mountains and glaciers. Each layer reveals remnants of our love—petrified wood, evaporated organisms, aborted skeletons.
You return now as a teasing rain, each kiss a glancing raindrop. I turn my head and let gravity wash you away.
This story was written in response to the following prompt from Carrot Ranch Literary Community:
June 11, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about deep waters. It can be literal or metaphorical. Think of a place and person and situation. Explore. Bathe. Renew. Go where the prompt leads!