Elle's fictional prose

Milk (E)

He proffers a drink of cold milk, condensation beading on the glass and wending down to his chilled fingertips. But part of me can't move past the memory of collecting fresh milk from the cowshed, so creamy we'd stir it before pouring it over cornflakes. It would slide into my mouth, the silky warmth reminding me that just moments earlier it had been inside that nameless, faceless cow. I shudder, declining his kind offer.


Written 16 June 2016