Mikki Aronoff: JUST LIKE THAT • Cleaver Magazine

Flash Fiction by Mikki Aronoff
JUST LIKE THAT

The night we were hit by the biggest snowstorm in decades—such a surprise that late autumn evening—our middle brother died. No one was prepared for his demise. That shouldn’t have been the case, as there were signs. But we’re a subtle bunch, more drawn to flat lines and shallow, undulating strokes than to nervous zig-zags on charts or graphs, so we never noticed how, lately, he’d been swiffering, scrubbing and scouring all his edges and corners, making sure he’d leave no mess. At dinner, we’d been discussing Cousin Sally’s divorce and how we could support her. And the neighbor’s problem with his oak tree. Out of context, between the cream of celery soup and the croquettes, Roger announced, “I’m not afraid to die.” Just like that. We mustered nervous laughs, or shifted in our seats, leaned over to pick up imaginary napkins from the floor, wiped invisible mushroom gravy from the cracked corners of our lips. Surface skimmers all, death was not a topic we liked to broach. Roger, much to our discomfort, was skilled at initiating deeper conversations and never one to change the subject. Outside, snow kept falling. And falling and falling and falling. The candles on the table were burning down, flames reflecting in the dark dining room window. Roger shifted his fork from right to left and back again. He muttered something about a headache, and did we mind if he took to his room? He murmured regrets as we waved him upstairs. We sat back in our seats, refilled our wine glasses, and debated whether the fireplace could use another log. The following morning, Roger didn’t show for breakfast. The roads couldn’t be cleared. The storm kept the snowplows and ambulance away. We left him uncovered in his four-poster bed and opened the windows to keep his body cold. As we regrouped around the table for tea and toast, jagged lines chiseling into our chests, we stared at the floor, at each other, picking at our crusts. Upstairs, snow drifted in, blanketing his quiet body.

Mikki Aronoff writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. Her work has been long-listed for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction. Mikki has stories in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Small Fictions 2025 and Best Microfiction 2025. She lives in New Mexico.