Matthew Brennan is a novelist, flash-fictionist, translator, and freelance editor based in the  Pacific Northwest . Having earned his MFA in fiction from  Arizona State University , he remains on the editorial staff of the Hayden's Ferry Review. Brennan has received several awards and fellowships for his fiction, which has most recently appeared in Ginger Piglet, The Molotov Cocktail, Fiddleblack, and Pure Slush,  and is forthcoming from Trigger.

Two Stories (October 25, 2011. Issue 32.)

Regret

The lowering sun hued the island with a blush of rose, like a drop of red paint stirred into a can of white. She stood on the beach, no one else in sight, the mountains rising behind her and around to the side, brown and dry, the peaks alone still lit in the sun. Against the rocks of the shoreline, the waves fell, surging forward then up into fan-like sprays of water, white with the minerals that scented the wind off the sea. Stepping up to the tideline along the cooling sand, she awaited the next broken wave, sliding up toward her toes. Then she ran, laughing, up the beach and just out of the water's way, holding her hair back from the wind. I watched her, half the time through my camera's viewfinder, wanting to capture the moment of her delight.

I realized then that I could share her happiness, could join her, run and laugh with her. But I hadn't yet photographed the moment I wanted to preserve. Steadying myself against the wind, dry in my mouth and eyes, I took a few more pictures, then put the camera away, the light now too dim. Finally I walked to her, the rush of the surf and the echoes of its breaking loud in the growing darkness. But with the dark, it was time for us to go, and she was no longer laughing. We walked back through the sand, the sun's warmth gone, to where we had left our shoes and paper coffee cups, pressed into the sand, the coffee now cold and stale.

Firenze

They had been awake for three hours by the time the hotel's bellboy brought in their breakfast on a tray: cappuccinos and orange juice, cereal with milk, butter croissants, and rolls with an assortment of jams. They'd requested the earliest available time, but had crossed nine timezones in thirty-six hours, and were wide-awake by dawn. Outside through the window, opened when they woke, they could hear people on the narrow street, see the upper stories of the stone buildings of the neighborhood. They would close the window again before they left for the day, hoping to keep the room cool through the hot afternoon, but the morning was pleasant.

The hotel itself was a narrow section of its building, with long, switchback staircases and only a handful of rooms off of each platform. It reminded them of New York City, the conservation and economical use of space, pushing upward instead of out, but not as high. The whole city appeared to remain around five or six stories, except for the cathedrals. Like a landscape, like living within view of the sea, the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore was massive and visible, it seemed at times, from almost everywhere. They would see a piece of it when walking past the narrow opening of another street, or the dome would rise above the tiled roofs. They used it to navigate, the hotel just a block north.

He saw the bellboy out, then relocked the door and joined her at the little table, nearly covered by the tray, its corners poking out over the table's circular edge. They both surveyed the contents of the tray, hungry, but taking a moment to decide where to begin. She took her cappuccino and set it down on the narrow strip of table in front of her; he started with the cereal. Oh wow, she said, you've got to try this, it takes me right back to my first time here. I don't usually drink coffee in the morning, he said. This is an Italian cappuccino, she said, it's different. Pushing his bowl aside, carefully, he took his cup and set it next to the bowl. She picked up one of the rolls and squeezed it, smiling to hear the crackle of the bread's crust pressing into the soft interior. Lifting his cup, he took a sip, then paused, and smiled, and sipped again.