Member-only story
Aura
The Daily Word #92 | Open Mic Poetry Week | Cinquain
He brought me pancakes and orange juice in bed. Apparently, blueberry pancakes had been my favorite.
“The orange juice is fresh-squeezed,” Brian told me. “You took care of our orange tree in the backyard religiously, just so we could enjoy fresh-squeezed orange juice every winter.”
He was always telling me little things about myself, in the hopes that one of his stories would give me back my memories. I didn’t remember anything after the accident.
Brian took a sip from his glass of orange juice and raised it to me, as if he wanted us to toast. I obliged. Clink.
“To three months of you being alive. Happy three-month birthday!”
The doctors had told us that I died on the table but they were able to revive me.
“That’s not just orange juice,” I sniffed.
“It’s a mimosa,” he grinned.
“Smells strong.”
Glasses
Cocktails and wine
Fine food and loud music
Bodies moving on the dance floor
Pleasure
