We Danced On Your Grave (Flash Fiction)

Christian Stretton

We danced on your grave. Remember? On that unusually mild night in November. It was supposed to be a full moon that night, but it clouded over, so the visibility was poor, but still. You would’ve heard us.

We began self-consciously as first, just wiggling hips, shuffling to the music, not looking up, not really into it. Then our shuffle became a twist, and I looked up at Jake, and we smiled, because it reminded us of that dance sequence in Pulp Fiction, and without even mentioning it, we both just started doing that eye-mask move, you know? From the film? Where they move their fingers in a V past their eyes? So then we laughed, and we’re really getting into it, jumping up and down, and kicking the dirt around, singing along at the top of our voices. You’d think we were drunk, but we weren’t. We didn’t need to be.

The song finished, and we just collapsed on the ground giggling. We lay that way for a while, my head on his torso, curled up there on your grave. Once we had calmed down, we tried to talk a little, but sometimes actions speak louder don’t they? I stood up, and grabbed Jake’s hand to pull him up, and we walked home, arm-in-arm on that strangely warm November night.

You would’ve loved it.


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