Pointing to the large, misshapen bubble floating in front of them as he and his wife sat on the park bench, Stanley said, “Now that, Mildred, is freedom. To just float anywhere the breezes take you. How I’d love to be that bubble.”
Mildred gave her husband a look. “Feeling a bit of wanderlust, are you Stanley, after fifty years of marriage?”
“I’m bored, Mildred,” Stanley responded. “We never do anything or go anywhere. We wake up each morning, eat, watch TV, come to the park and sit on this bench, go home, eat again, and go back to bed. Day in and day out, the same thing over and over.”
“Stanley, you’re 82 years old,” Mildred said. “I’m 76. What is it that you want us to go out and do? A little skydiving? Some bungee jumping?”
“I don’t know, Mildred,” Stanley said, “But I wish I were that bubble, so free, so unattached, so unencumbered.”
“Really, Stanley? Unencumbered? You know what I wish I were, Stanley?” she asked. “I wish I were a hat pin.”
“Why would you wish that?” Stanley asked.
“Because if I were a hat pin,” Mildred replied, “I would burst your stupid, fucking bubble.”
Written for this week’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner from Roger Shipp. Photo credit: MorgueFile May 2018 file1831341080767.