June Flash Fiction: Doors Indoors and Watermelon Bread by Faith Fulbright

Doors Indoors and Watermelon Bread

Faith Fulbright

After the show we go to a high-end grocery store. I go in alone. I try to find the bathroom but am already carrying the front of a bathroom stall: two narrow panels with a door between. I have to go through the swing door sideways, and once I am inside, to the largest stall where it is most likely to fit. I lock the door and start smoking. I remember the grounds with the hill, the bleachers, and the arena, the rail and the crowds where I’d get a leg up. I remember Rosa, the slick black saddle and long reins — never on the buckle — keeping a finger on her bob and drive. Yanepsi comes in. I let her into the stall. She worries that the length of my stay has made me suspicious. We agree to go but can’t get the stall-front back through the swing door. We leave it in the next-to-last stall, not visible from the entrance. We walk quickly through the store; we don’t need anything. A cashier says, “Aren’t you going to get anything?” “Watermelon bread,” I exclaim as though just having remembered it. It’s a cake really, Bundt shaped, and when cut, profiles laughably: it is three-quarters crisp golden brown, the lower left quadrant is green.

Faith Fulbright is a recent graduate of the Hoger Instituut voor Wijsbegeerte at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, in Leuven, Belgium, where she obtained her bachelor’s degree in continental philosophy. She has since taken a break in the mountains of North Carolina to read, write, and pursue the visual arts. In addition to philosophical papers in Leuven, Canterbury, and the states, her artistic works include a reading with the Leuven Writing Collective, four poems in London’s Disclaimer magazine, and an avant garde piece with Bombay Gin (forthcoming).