flash fiction by dc restaino

Light Pollution

I.

S directs M from behind as they slip into the woods near their houses. Their steps are out of sync, so S clips M’s heel every few steps. 

“It’s left,” S says when they approach a branch in the path, and M follows the direction without questions, “You’d be so lost without me.”

This far from home, they crush dead leaves underfoot without care. 

II.

The clearing is small and shaped like a starburst scar in the middle of the woods. They drop their bags near the pile of rocks in the barest part of the clearing. S once called it an entry wound, and M laughed but couldn’t imagine what could have caused this kind of damage. 

M sets to organizing the pile of rocks in a circle and then digging a ditch in the center with their hands. Dirt gets between their fingers and under their nails. S clatters back into the clearing with an armful of wood. 

“That old hickory tree is down,” S says, “Must’ve been that storm last weekend.”

Last weekend was when they originally planned to hike out here. Instead, M stayed home and gazed at S’ house, waiting for a flare. 

“I’m surprised it’s already dry.”

“Dead things tend to dry up faster,” S says, dropping the wood in a pile by the rock circle. Together, they strip the branches of leaves and bark and every other small thing that no longer matters.

III. 

M met S in the clearing years earlier when M and their family moved in next door. M was laying in the clearing on their back—if the timing was just right, the sun had direct access between the gap in the trees. S flickered above them like a heat mirage and held out a hand. 

“I want to show you something cool,” S said. They twisted their fingers with M. That was the first fire they set together.

IV.

S is bent low with their head twisted sideways. From that angle, M can see S’ back expand, lips pursed, as they breathed on the embers at the heart of the wood pile. M rests their head on their bunched-up knees, smiling as a curl of smoke knots its way into the air. 

S sits back and pulls out a bottle of water. They pass it over when they finish. S laughs when M misses their mouth and spills it over their face. 

“Your glasses are drenched,” S says, snatching them from where they are sitting crooked on M’s nose. 

The world grows hazy in the distance, and all M can see in focus is S calmly wiping the eyeglasses with their shirt. The lenses are thick. M always jokes they would make a great magnifying glass, but S is careful cleaning them. Like the glass will break with the slightest pressure. M watches as S runs their fingers across the frame and teases the arms.

“Here,” S says, sliding them back in place.

M sits still, lungs expanding, and breathes softly as the fire grows warmer beside them. 

V.

M wishes they could stay in the clearing forever.

M wishes they didn’t have to go home–they despise the bright green lawn that stretches between their two houses.

M wishes they didn’t spend so much time dreaming and daydreaming about setting the lawns on fire until they burned to ash.

VI.

S cooks them a dinner of hot dogs and burns them a little because M likes them that way. “The crunch feels good,” M explained when S asked once. 

They sit across the fire from each other. M watches the smoke bloom from the campfire, and the sparks darting around blink in and out of existence. M observes how the embers dance across the sky of S’ face. M likes to memorize the constellations they make. Alone at home, between their escapes together, M would stare at the ceiling of their room and imagine the constellations branding themselves into the ceiling until the paint blistered and peeled off.

VII. 

Once, the first time they spent the night in the clearing:

“Where did you tell your parents you are?”

“A sleepover with K. You?”

“Told them I am with you.”

“Right.”

“I always tell them I’m with you.” 

“I want to tell them I’m with you, too.”

“Right.” 

They never have this conversation again.

VIII.

M throws a still-damp log on the fire, and the smoke that billows out is so thick they can’t see each other.

“Sorry,” M says, flapping their hands to try and clear away the veil. 

“It’s ok,” S says, their face pinched. S picks at their fingers, and M must stop themself from stepping through the fire to take S’ hands. Offer their hands, instead, for S to peel apart. S watches the smoke exhale, and M doesn’t know why they don’t watch the wood. Smoke is always just smoke. It’s the burning thing that changes. 

IX.

When the fire starts to dim, they roll out their blankets and use their bags as pillows. S removes M’s glasses—they always forget when they are tired—and tucks them nearby but safe. It is quiet, and S begins to slide into sleep until M starts to cry. 

M once told S it felt like they had an ocean inside them. “It just spills over sometimes.” 

S turns over, pulls M closer, and kisses the back of their neck. They leave their lips there so M feels the sear of S’ breath as they whisper. 

X. 

In the morning, they share a breakfast of apples and cold-press coffee that M kept chilled in a thermos. In the early light, they can barely see the lingering embers of their fire. M craves leaving it, going home, watching cinders splinter through the woods until they can’t be ignored. S must always remind M to kick sand on it, just in case, to make sure the fire is smothered before they leave.