Driftwater
By Sarp Sozdinler
The news of the flood hit when the kettle started to whistle. It was soon apparent that we were supposed to evacuate the building, but we were too drunk and tired after all the flying, so we locked the door and drew the curtains. We put on the Do Not Disturb sign. We slipped into our pajamas and ordered room service: you, the chopped salad; I, the largest burger they had. You joked: our own little Last Supper. The waves afar didn’t only flood the streets but also the whole soundscape of the room—we could hardly hear each other gulp or chew. We lay on the unmade bed after, too full to make any kind of advances toward one another, these two beached whales in need of rescue. You said you had a lot of experience with disasters, a recurrence that had to do with Oklahoma being situated, in your own words, in the asshole of civilization; I said my hometown was as Midwestern as the Midwest could get, barren and flat like your chest. Nothing but a sameness of bored cows and grain silos and ramshackle churches and megastores and water towers, which under certain light could look a lot like retired rockets. Your face scrambled into a boyish grin when you said you murdered your mother’s plants the day after she broke one of your toy rockets. You said it was the only thing you had left of your father. We fell silent shortly after and watched the waves do their sloshing dance along the streets. When the power finally went out, I brought out some candles from my purse and lit them with your It’s-A-Pickle lighter; you brought out a deck of cards and a bottle of whiskey. We didn’t speak at first—just a few shy giggles. We stole furtive glances at each other and pretended none of it was intentional. We didn’t even notice the ceiling was leaking with rainwater, baptizing us with sludge and dirt. Washing us of our shame and pleasure. You said this is what happens when you stray far from home. I took out the candles one by one with the tip of my fingers and kissed you on the forehead. Let’s go back to sleep, I said.
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Sarp Sozdinler
The writer is based in Philadelphia and Amsterdam. His work has been published in the Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Normal School, Hobart, HAD, X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, among other places. Some of his pieces have been anthologized and selected as a finalist at literary events, including the 2022 Los Angeles Review Flash Fiction Award and the Waasnode Short Fiction Prize judged by Jonathan Escoffery. He currently is at work on his first novel. You can find him tweeting @sarpsozdinler or read his writing on sarpsozdinler.com.