The Sky Rained Shoes
by Grey Johnson
What they saw was white light through their eyelids.
They had been tickling each other’s forearms and making jokes about their travel souvenirs. He had bought her a giant Lucite diamond paperweight to make up for the size of her engagement ring. Her gift to him was a bottle stopper with a top like the head of a tropical bird. She liked the color.
What she didn’t like was the single red rose he bought her at the airport. It was cheaply obvious, and she hated whoever it was who generated the myth of one being more romantic than many.
Then their bodies sublimated, into infinite trajectories, and the sky rained shoes, iPod ear buds, empty Coke cans, and that single blanket that no one ever has.
However, the odd forces of non-linear dynamics held their cheap treasures bound. They dropped as one to the forest floor, where they were captured by a diligent bowerbird, trying to woo a mate.
(I live in a small town in the Southeast, where I try to grow flowers. I enjoy losing at cards, and I knit rectangles. Although I don't maintain a blog, it is easy to read my work at http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/GreyJohnson.)