Oil

From a writing prompt book I bought back in January.

 

At first we thought the black liquid was oil, that we’d stuck it rich and that we’d be able to retire and live in leisure.  We actually started writing down all the ways we’d spend the money. Our first choice was to buy a lake house in Tacoma. Neither of us had ever been, but you said it was beautiful. You’d seen it in a movie once.

I brought my knees to the dirt to get a closer look. The substance so dark I couldn’t find my reflection in it. I felt you touch my arm when I dipped my hand into it and brought it close to my face.

“Will we forget in Tacoma?” I looked at you, my eyes swelling with tears, distorting your image. “Will we forget it all in Tacoma?”

You were silent.

I gripped my shirt, cleaning my hands of what was surely staining them. Still you were silent. We let the quiet consume us, staring at the thing that could make us rich, but not forget. The former joy now replaced with the stale reminder that sadness lived in us.

You left me there, knees in the dirt, desperately trying to see myself in the darkness. I’d always been so good at ruining our best moments.

I didn’t bother to tell you…

I wasn’t sure it was oil at all…

 

 

 

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