The Gentle Man

A calming flash fiction

Photo by henry perks on Unsplash

Ma was washing up as loudly as possible, clanging every pot and pan. ‘He’s in the garden,’ she snapped. ‘Go on!’

I shrank outside. Ma’s honeysuckle arch was laden with bees and, passing under it, I entered the greenery to find a B of, perhaps, my very own.

Bruno reclined on the short wall: one foot planted on top of the brick, knee bent so that his leg formed a mountainous A. His other leg curved down to earth, like the tail of a lazy cat.