On the first warm night of summer she wore the sarong she bought in Venice Beach where everyone is beautiful. The drape of fabric, soft as a sigh, brought back the surf that smelled like seaweed, the muscle volleyball game, and the blackest man in America who mimed on the boardwalk to a growing crowd. Candle wax from the last time she'd worn it had hardened in little droplets down the front. She could lift them out with an iron and a piece of paper towel. But that would have to wait.
The rain came across the fields like wind through corn, and with it rose the howl from the barn, and what she had to do because he was gone overtook the carefree evening. She hung the sarong back in the closet, changed into the jeans that fit and pulled on the tall rubber boots that didn't, then loaded the gun, raised the hood on her anorak, and entered the night.
Flash Fiction can be looked at as a half circle. But what if this was just the beginning. Would you turn the page?