Day 1 Winner of Quarto’s 2024 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here.

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

Let’s sit. Well, dress, then sit. I am unaffected by the bareness of my skin so long as it’s steady in motion. We don’t have to talk. We can, but I won’t need to. You can, but I may not. Someone’s got to be the watchdog. Listen carefully for an intruder, your roommate, a slip in your speech. I unpack carefully, make myself at home. Arrange what’s mine in an optimized manner, taking up even less space than in my arms where I carried them into your little bedroom, from which they’ll be carried out sooner or later. I will not make this harder than it has to be. It has to be so much all the time, and maybe I am, sometimes. Maybe we’ll be, sometimes. Sitting, standing. Saying too much, saying nothing at all. And look at me, listening! Not fidgeting, stirring, not even staring, no, trying to not look at all. Eyes closed. On my first day of Kindergarten during naptime, I strained for sleep and found myself, instead, stuck on the sound of the breath of my neighbors. I did not know their names yet, just the color of their backpacks or hair, so I’d think, Blonde is snoring. Blue yawned three times. Green with pink polka dots is whispering to purple, and I think they woke up orange. I never fell asleep, but afterwards in the dream circle (we shared them, our dreams) I matched shades to faces and faces to names, and since then I haven’t gone to bed without listening for a sign of life first.