Flash Fiction #4: “Could” is as Distant as the Sun

What could have been. Single Story.

Could is as Distant as the Sun. Illustration imagined with Midjourney.

We were never in love.

We could have been in love when we first met aboard that canary yellow school bus — the distance between our seats growing shorter and shorter until we rode the world side by side.

I still remember her pearl earrings reflecting the sun, playing hopscotch to the groove of the asphalt’s imperfections.

I still remember our sharing of the last bubblegum in my pack, all the while pretending that the green lights on the road were teleportation devices that enabled the bus to jump from street to street.

We could have been in love right there, as I helped her climb down its steps to the backing track of all the other kids mocking us. I still remember how she beamed at me — her eyes the cool green of a dandelion’s stalk.

But we were never in love.

We could have been in love when she had her first heartbreak. As I walked her home, steps synchronized, my arm circled her just like an envelope would a letter: an attempt at protecting her frayed edges.

But we were never in love.

We could have been in love when I went to pick her up for prom; dazzlingly beautiful, in that simple blue dress. I still remember the smile on her face as I took her by the arm to my old but trustworthy petrol-blue Vespa, her laughter echoing in time with the engine as we drove to the ball.

I still remember the illegal taste of her lips — mint bubblegum and black vodka — from when I kissed her by the end of the last dance.

But we were never in love.

We could have been in love when I mourned her father’s death beside her. That was the moment I finally understood how relative distance is; how far away a person can be even as we hug them. I cried for her tears as we stayed behind after all others left, the rain pouring down on us but unable to wash away the pain.

But we were never in love.

We could have been in love when she married. And we could have been in love when I married, not too long after that. Or when she helped us name our child — and when we did the same for theirs.

We could have been in love when, after we were left by those we had vowed to share a life with, I held her hand as I felt her last breath on my beard.

We could have been in love when she saw the tears running down the cork-like texture of my cheeks, and smiled that smile I had known since we rode that yellow bus.

We could have been in love as she whispered “Maybe in our next lives, my love”.

We were never in love.

But oh god, we could have been.

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The firestarter to writing this story was “a canary yellow bus”. From that image, I may have taken the most obvious road: but I still think it’s one worth exploring. And in fact, anyone exploring this exact same road would express themselves in a different, personal manner.

Stealing like an artist is a real thing. So just steal from here: what’s your story around “a canary yellow bus”?