Flash, Again

Another flash fiction, inspired by a class assignment. I wrote this one hoping- as I did in my last flash fiction- to explain the back story elements for the longer piece I am working on. The imagery is kind of clunky and obvious, but I was trying to hit a mood here. Hope it works. The piece is called "Runway."

Normally, the Runway Diner coffee was a draw for Sean. He loved it, the bitter aroma, the thin layer of grease on the surface, the inky blackness. He loved it as much as he loved meeting her here, usually after work, mostly on Sunday mornings when he should have been- told his wife he was- at the gym. He swirled the last dregs around in his cup, bits of grounds clinging to the sides, before draining it.

He glanced out the window, low, gray clouds overhanging the expanse of the airport beyond, the rain starting again to pock the already standing puddles. The lights of the runway blared in unison a sharp red. She was slipping away towards her car, that beat up Saab she had had since college. She had bought a Jeep with money from her last big design gig, but had promptly sold it; debt and the pressure of life overcame the status of the big green machine.

It had been six months since he had seen her, a chance encounter in New York, a night at the Americana, then the crushing emptiness of returning to life at home. It had been this way before, since college really, this pattern. Her absences were crushing but her email had been an oasis, and the meetings, all clandestine and dangerous, his salvation. But it was different now. Or was it?

“More coffee, hon?” The waitress, coffee poised above cup, searched out his eyes but he didn’t turn away from the window. A brown and orange Southwest jet was taxiing onto the tarmac directly across from him, and the Saab was backing up.

“No thanks,” he said without looking, and she shuffled away before he could add his thanks. He fiddled with the bracelet he had given her in New York, now his again. The rain intensified, the jet whirred its engines, and she made the left out of the parking lot and disappeared down Aerodrome Road. He watched her two taillights until they were mere dots in the gauzy streaks of rain, and then they were gone.

It was 9:30. He told her he’d be home at 11:00. Craning his neck he held his empty cup up to the waitress, then settled in to watch the jet’s long, slow arc into the battered sky.

385 words. Harder than it looks, really, when you want to say so much but have to remain silent, so to speak. My story is up to 3,400 words and I'm not even close to being done, yet it seems that the shorter form is such a quick hit, punch in the stomach kind of a writing exercise. I guess when you're stuck saying too much, use the short form...