by Mikki Aronoff
The musicians rumbled past as I fumbled with my buttons hastening to join the merriment. The cymbals caused Lizzie to jump and shred my crinolines, her spaniel nails in need of a trim. Hester rushed to my aid with needle and thread, just as the crimson-clad trombonist marched under my window, its slide of brass and bell so fine I swooned—Leonard’s lips soft on mine the day before—and slipped to the floor. I roused as the piccolo passed, caring circle of sisters fanning my cheeks, wiping my brow, the band now gone but still I taste the red.
Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024 and in Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Microfiction 2025 and Best Small Fictions 2025.
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