The Neighbor: a tiny flash fiction

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It was a farce, this whole business of playing Twister. Larry sat there with the spinner and studied the four corners: right, left, all hands and feet. Not a thing about a nose. He could win by a nose. By a hair. By a sneeze. It was clear the lady of the house had a terrible allergy. He saw her now–right foot on red, left hand on yellow–bobbing her head in an oncoming attack. He’d bathed and brushed, but there was little he could do about his dander. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come to the party, except that someone on the block had mentioned hot cider, and he did love a good apple cider. No one had mentioned games for the supple.

Relegated to the sidelines, he flicked the spinner; it landed on blue. He whinnied, while everyone whined and scrambled for a spot. Arms entwined, bodies bent, Larry sat stiff in the chair, banished yet again. So when the lady of the house set her toe near the corner and turned her backside his way, it was only natural that he lean in. Nip. Call it a night.