Ficlets

I am told that, though it was a hot summer evening and Hubert had parked at the edge of the farm, the overpowering smell inside the car was that of his Bryll Cream.

With the car stopped, he set the radio, then turned sideways in the seat to put his arm around Rhonda, a big smile on his face. “I got some Jim Beam there in the glove box,” he said. “You want some?”

Rhonda shook her head, brunette ringlets dancing. “Are you sure it’s safe here?”

“Sure,” he said. “I bring—I come out here by myself sometimes to listen to music.”

She looked at him a long moment, then snuggled in against his arm, gazing at the sunset out across the fields.

“Someday, I aim to get me a farm just like this one,” Hubert said in a soft, dreamy tone. “Barn. Silo. Front porch.”

Rhonda looked at him, a faraway smile glittering in her eyes.

The sun finished setting, the radio played on, and the evening passed quietly into legend.

And later, in the sweltering darkness of the vinyl back seat, next to that Oklahoma farm, I was conceived.