Everything my love put in her white apartment, and on her white skin, was black. Her clothesline rippled like a black hole in a rainbow universe of kids' soccer jerseys, womens' scarves and multi-colored socks that dotted the alley. I met her at the end of spring, when the rains thundered away from the city and I was left, spinning and breathless under that tear in the alleyway of colors.
Even her underwear was an inky midnight. I lost myself for days in the void directly above her plump, snow-white thighs. On the right one was one pin-prick, jetblack mole. She fed me bright, fresh peppers, greens and reds popping in the stark summertime sun.
But as the summer flew on, that mole grew, creating first an island, expanding to a continent, consuming her lovely thigh in the blackness she so loved. It then continued its conquest inside, until her organs darkened, and she went where no light can penetrate. As the days began to shorten and give way to longer nights, we buried her in a black dress, one white rose tucked behind her frost colored ear.
Flash Fiction Friday is a series of original fiction of 10 sentences prompted by a photograph. Freya stole this brilliant idea from the even more brilliant writer, Erin Morgenstern.