Late night, all alone. Amethyst twinkling from the TV set. The beautiful “o” of stones. I feel like an “o” myself, a zero, because 3 a.m. is when the world gets so quiet, you hear everything. The host is a piano of teeth and a candle of eyes. She says things like special value, very rare, and I’m thinking she doesn’t mean me. No, she is talking about the necklace. Every stone faceted, perfect. She flickers it under the camera lights and the amethyst looks like nightstars which takes me back to my own summer nights, on a blanket with some boyfriend or other, the smell of sweetgrass and his ropey, teenaged neck. His hands damp, a tremble of lust and even the sky wasn’t bigger than we were. I look back at the TV. I wonder if amethyst has a smell.
Francine Witte‘s flash fiction and poetry have appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Wigleaf, and many other journals. She lives in NYC.
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