Carousel
In the most romantic city in the world, under the magically beautiful Eiffel Tower, Joan leaned against a post and stretched her knotted back muscles as she watched her twin boys ride the carousel.
Suddenly, the wooden horse winked at her.
She looked around to see if anyone else had seen it, only to find a young Frenchman watching her. She wondered idly how she knew he was French. Thin and dark, he was quite the contrast to her blond husband, who was tending towards a nicely padded dad bod these days. But it was more than that. The way he leaned against the carousel fence, simply the curve of his smile, was clearly French, and he was indeed smiling -- at her.
Embarrassed, she looked down. When she gazed up again, he was standing next to her. She felt for her purse. Pickpockets were rampant in this tourist Mecca, but her purse, with its cross-body strap and slice-resistant construction, was still in place.
She turned to face him, and found herself smiling back at him, drawn by his laughing brown eyes, unable to turn away.
As they regarded each other, the Seine was reflected in his dark and deeply liquid irises. Without thinking, Jean leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, drawn by those two slowly moving swirls.
Their tongues touched, and time stopped.
She caressed his cheek; he touched her breast. Clothes disappeared. They were in a whirlpool now, which was starting to move faster and faster. There was no way to resist the powerful, churning water. As they wrapped their legs and arms around each other, the water, circling tighter and tighter, pulled them through a dark mysterious tunnel which enveloped them for an eternity…
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The sun was bright on her face when she finally opened her eyes. There he was, still leaning against the carousel fence, still smiling. When he glanced her way, she blushed. Then, the twins were jumping beside her, demanding money for another ride. She searched in her purse and found the needed euros and they ran away to mount their favorite animals.
The calliope played, the lions and tigers and ostriches began to move rhythmically up and down, and in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, the painted horse winked at her again.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
After a lifetime working in corporate America, Nancy Finston (she/her) is delighted to have found joy in creative writing. This is her second piece of flash fiction to be published. She is currently working on her first novel.
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