The country bans all hugs, kisses, and handshakes after the virus.
Nick proclaims love through glass, Mother’s smile encapsulated.
He wants to inhale the old smells, Mother’s pot and mint gum, lavender perfume. She always wears that right during concert tours. Wore, to be correct.
Mother promises perpetual love through glass.
But hugs codify. He’s had only sterile walls, emojis, and platitudes.
He tries to break glass. There’s another layer. Another.
He imagines Mother holding onto him, imagines her dirty jokes. Windows taunt. He breaks another layer.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart. Yash currently lives in Idaho.
See more of Yash's work in 8.2 and 8.2 and 8.2 and Special Flash 50/50