by Clive Aaron Gill

When I was seven or eight years old, Mama and Papa fought a lot. They toned down their conversation when they heard me approaching.

On a Saturday morning, I thought of a plan to help my parents. That evening, I took Mama to her bedroom where I had laid her bluish-green, sequined evening gown on the bed.

‘What’s this about?’ she asked, with raised eyebrows.

‘You’ll see. Put on your makeup, your perfume, your dress, and your high-heeled shoes.’

‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ she said, with a bewildered look.

I took Papa to his study where I had laid out his formal clothes: a dress shirt, black tux, black bow tie and dancing shoes. With a grin, he followed my instructions to get dressed. Then I pulled Papa into the living room. Soon afterward I escorted Mama, who walked like a queen, towards Papa.

They faced each other with tight-lipped smiles.

‘Music,’ I yelled. ‘That’s what I forgot.’

I played a waltz on the record player and they moved with the rhythm. I got chills down my back when they looked into each other’s eyes. I clapped my hands and giggled.

‘Everything is working well,’ I thought. ‘I bet they could dance all night.’

‘Well, princess,’ Mama said, ‘thank you for your thoughtfulness. Now, off to bed.’

That night I dreamt of sunshine and the aroma of lilacs.

I woke up in the morning, feeling happy.

But, the next day, Mama and Papa fought again, and the scent of French perfume faded.

I knew then that one of my parents would soon pack a few things and abandon me.

 ∼

Clive Aaron Gill’s short stories have appeared in numerous Internet magazines. Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.