The Summer of ’76 When I Wasn’t Quite a Man
A Flash Fiction by Sally Curtis
Cross-legged on the parched ground, backs against the pen, we rubbed Hawaiian Tropic onto Mr Samuels’ pigs. The heat was treacle thick, and the air tasted of sweat and straw and coconut, the only movement was the pigs rolling heavily onto their sides, their red bellies rising and falling in time to their snuffling.
Your cotton dress just covered your shoulders, the tops of your arms reddening under the sun’s weight.
You asked what I was staring at, one eye crinkle-closed against the glare, the luckiest pig alive resting its snout in your lap. Embarrassed at being discovered, I couldn’t tell you how I wanted to drizzle cream onto your skin, nuzzle into the sweat patches beneath your arms, lick the salt from you, so I asked if you wanted to catch minnows at The Throop the next day.
You said the river was dry. And anyway we were too old for all that, as if being fourteen signalled childhood’s close.
“Tick-a-tick-a-Timex,” you said, glancing at your wrist.
You wanted to tape Paul Gambaccini but insisted we go to Woollies first – see how many Pick’n’Mix we could eat before we got to the till. I agreed. I always did.
You squeezed the last of the lotion onto our palms. The big sow snuffled. As we reached out to deposit the warm, watery liquid, our hands touched. My skin burned but you continued massaging your fingers into the pig’s downy bristles. I leant in, my lips close to your ear, the hairs on your neck soft as silk.
You turned, caught me looking again and smiled, but I could not smile back. Drawn like filings to a magnet, I brushed my lips against yours. The pig snorted, farted, rolled from your lap onto the fissured earth and the moment was gone.
On the way to yours, full of stolen sugar bravado, I took your hand. You nibbled at your bottom lip, then told me you’d never gone all the way before, and I said, “That’s okay,” because I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed for misunderstanding.
I didn’t go in, said I’d forgotten Auntie Sue was coming over, as laying on your bed, head-to-head, ready to press pause on the DJ’s interruptions, now seemed a dangerous game.
When I saw you back at school in September, you were different. Your hair was as curly as a pig’s tail and your eyes were underlined with thick, blue smudges. By the end of half-term, you were hanging out with different friends, all smoky breaths and sticky scents. Word got out you were with a fifth-former; that you’d had sex at The Throop.
I often think of that day together, burnt and sugar-spun, and wonder whether I should have added, “You can stop whenever you want to,” and whether you would have.
Author: Sally lives on the south coast near the sea and dreams of being a full-time writer. Sally especially enjoys writing flash but is also keen on writing short stories too. She has been published online and in various anthologies.
Ohhh I love this. So full of yearning. Congrats!