The Art of Boiling Water - Flash fiction

Originally written in 2018 and posted on The Journey of Now blog, The Art of Boiling Water is a piece of short fiction. Below is a slightly edited and revised version.

Staring.

Heavy eyelids. The cellphone screen remained blank, outside of the usual icons. Time had changed, rolling over slowly minute to minute. There was nothing else. No notifications. No text messages. No phone calls.

A watched pot never boils.

I first heard that in the summer of my twelfth year on a trip to my aunt's house. I stared out the window of her cozy kitchen, glancing over stacked dirty dishes and hovering flies, waiting for the arrival of my cousins. Once a year there were visits with the cousins -- along with my aunts and uncles -- and the excitement brewed inside me.

The energy I carried was nervous bundle of anxiety. Why am I nervous? I am the older cousin. I'm the cooler one who they look up to.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Years later. High school (or shortly after). I had stood right there in the parking lot when they were talking about going golfing or to a movie or simply cruising the strip. They said they would call.

Had I made it all up in my head? Had they only said that because I stood next to them?

At home. More waiting. The television was on, but I paid no attention to the program. I was on the couch, only feet away from the phone, ready to answer it on the first ring.

Nothing. The minutes tick by. A watched pot never boils.

And so, I slept. Awake an hour later to learn I received no such call. So, I spent the afternoon putting my best thoughts forward, only to hear the following day of all the fun had without me.

Tick, tick, tick.

Sounds in my head because, well, a cellphone doesn't tick like a watch used to do. I double checked my text, doubting it will be the case but hoping maybe it did not send.

It did. "What are you up to? Wanna hang?"

I wasn't wrong in assuming they did. We had done so for months now; a blur of alcohol, laughs, and broken candles. Swimming in lakes, walking in parks, and one eventful trip into the depths of...

The mind no longer recollects. Selective forgetfulness has its upsides. Candles were blown out; music is stopped, and the minutes continued to slip by. My grip on the cellphone tightens, sweat pool on the palm. Eyes are wide open, and the mind does not ever close.

A watched pot never boils.

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