This story was originally published at 404 Words, a now-defunct website for flash fiction of 404 or fewer words.
whiplash
By A. Ferguson
“Just when everythin’s perfect, that’s when it flips,” she said, pressing her thin lips into a straight line that split her sagging cheeks from her double chin.
She clutched her jack and coke with a puffy hand, its glass rim stained with dark pink lipstick just bright enough to make a fifty-two year old woman feel daring for wearing it.
“That’s why I don’t ever wish for nothin’ good,” she continued. “Cause when somethin’ really good happens, somethin’ bad’s always right behind it.”
“But—” I began to protest.
“As I live and breathe, it’s true,” she continued. “I been in this town 30-odd years, and I seen it all. I seen Jack Winsome have the best calving season in the county and then watch almost all of ‘em die of pneumonia not a month later. Remember when old Smitty got that inheritance from his great aunt and finally put a new roof on the sawmill? Next week, lightnin’ struck, started a fire, burned the whole thing down. I seen Davey Hildebrand win four numbers on the Powerball and find out six months later he’s got cancer. Hell, I seen some chickie come into this sorry place every Saturday night, have a few shots with a handsome cowboy, think he’s gonna sweep her off her feet straight to the altar and make her a farmhouse full of children. You better believe she gets a rude awakenin’ the next mornin’ when all that’s left of him is a couple of empty beer bottles and a dirty towel on the bathroom floor.”
She nodded her head knowingly, staring down into her glass. My eyes searched the bar for anyone who might be considered handsome.
“But don’t it ever work the other way?” I asked.
“The other way?”
“Yeah, the other way. Don’t it ever work where somethin’ bad happens and then—flip! Somethin’ good happens next?”
She pursed her lips again, squeezing them so tight the lipstick almost disappeared. She dropped her drink on the bar with a clunk.
“You haven’t heard a goddamn word I said,” she spat at me, yanking her parka off the back of the barstool. “Not a goddamn word.” She shook her head as she walked out the door and into the fast-falling snow.