I first see your face not across a room of strangers but in the queue for the number 42 bus. Your hair is pink. You tuck it behind your ear as you look quickly away then glance back again. A small smile flashes across your face.
Across a restaurant table, I admire your cheekbones as you talk about your mum and dad, your cat, your studies and your Vietnam travel plans. Your nose twitches when you slurp your pasta. You roll your eyes at my daft jokes.
The first time we kiss I cradle your face in my hands.
Back at your place I bury my face in your hair, bedsheets tangled and on the floor.
You are flushed and hopeful as you say ‘I do.’
I squeeze your hand as you writhe and howl. I tell you you’re doing brilliantly. You tell me to fuck off. Your fringe sticks to your forehead and I wipe your brow with my sleeve.
We gaze at the smooth newness of her face, her high-bridge nose like mine, dimpled chin my mum’s, bright blue eyes like yours.
When you laugh you snort and your face crinkles.
We take the kids to Vietnam. They hate it. I hold your (no longer pink) hair back as you puke in the hotel toilet.
There are other faces, too, for a time.
I wipe away your tears – and snot – after your dad dies. You say you don’t want to end up like that.
Our youngest announces that he’s moving to Vietnam. A glint of worry passes across your face and you say ‘Oh wow! Oh, wow.’
Across the dining table you tell me what the doctor thinks about your hip and what Jane said this morning at choir.
The lines on your forehead get deeper as you search for a once-familiar word.
I dab your face gently with a damp cloth. You complain that it’s too cold. I call the nurse over.
Your hair is a wispy white. I tuck it behind your ear, say goodbye, see you tomorrow, I love you.
Your eyes are vacant, your cheeks hollow. Your breath is snatched, irregular. I press the pillow down firmly, trembling. You tense, quiver then release. I look at your face, wiping away one of my tears from your cheek. I think I can detect a small smile.
A wonderful example of the alchemy of flash fiction, taking big themes and distilling them without any sense of reduction, or loss of power. ’Faces’ tells the story of a whole life. It is subtle and devastating, with a clever use of detail that makes the story ring true on every line.
Amanda O’Callaghan
This story deftly uses repetition to beautifully capture the moments that mark the passage of a life. It has a delicate ballad-like quality that leaves the reader having experienced a known rhythm, anew.
JC Niala
Kate Yella is an ESOL teacher from Teesside who enjoys writing, running, playing the clarinet and hanging out with her cat.
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