Brown Paper Bag
by Erin Lehman
Southwest Minnesota State University
Erin Lehman is a student at Southwest Minnesota State University, working to finish her Bachelor Of Arts in English by 2026. She has previously received an Associate of Arts in Creative Writing from Minneapolis Community and Technical College. While working towards the completion of her undergrad, she currently works a role as a Communications Specialist. She enjoys writing in all forms but is especially drawn to flash fiction, poetry, and copywriting.
He turns the brass knob of his third-story apartment. As the door cracks open, a faint series of meows grows louder, drawing closer. He reaches down as he walks in, fingers brushing the soft fur of a small orange tabby, scratching gently beneath its chin. The cat purrs loudly in approval.
With a sigh, he steps inside, locking the door behind him before turning around to set a small paper bag on the counter. His eyes drift to the scattered pile of papers beside it—bills, unopened mail, reminders of things he doesn’t want to think about. He scoops them up and shoves them into an already overflowing trash can. The tabby winds around his ankles, rubbing insistently against his legs before standing on its hind paws, batting at his knees.
“I know, Shorty. One second, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, opening a cupboard and pulling out a can of wet food. “I just get so tired after work. I don’t mean to forget.”
As he peels back the lid and dumps the wet slop into a dish and sets it on the floor, his phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. His expression hardens.
“Can you believe this, Shorts?” he scoffs, tossing the phone onto the counter. “Another ‘I miss you’ text from Mark. Third one this week.”
Shorty, focused on devouring his meal, pays him no attention.
With a shake of his head, he walks to the fridge, grabs a beer, and pops the cap off. He retrieves the small paper bag from the counter and sinks onto his worn-out brown leather couch. From inside, he pulls out a cloudy plastic bag containing almost a dozen round pills. He takes two, washing them down with a sip of beer.
The clock chimes, its sharp toll cutting through the silence. Midnight.
He kicks his feet up on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His eyelids grow heavy. Or maybe his vision is going—it’s hard to tell. The white ceiling darkens, dissolving into black. A voice, distant yet familiar, echoes in his ears. Shapes blur into focus, forming a scene.
Is he dreaming?
"I'm so sorry you had to find out this way," Mark's voice wavers, "I swear, I was going to tell you."
Responding, his own voice raw and shaking. "I never expected this from you, Mark. I feel so played"
"It was just one kiss," Mark pleads. "He bought me a drink. What would you have done?"
He turns away, heading for the door. Mark's voice follows him, desperate.
"Where are you going? You can't just leave me like this! What am I supposed to do without you?"
The words fade as he grabs his coat and scarf and opens the door to step out into the cold. Snowflakes swirl around him as he walks block after block, finally sinking onto the sidewalk, his back pressed against the frozen brick of a building. His breath comes in shaky gasps. Tears burn hot against his chilled skin. He buries his face in his arms, sobbing louder, and then—
Darkness.
His body jerks awake. Shorty startles beside him, leaping off the couch. Disoriented, he blinks, reaching for his phone to check the time. He begins thumbing through social media, taking the final sip of his beer and rising to fetch another.
Back on the couch, he swipes through his gallery, landing on an album titled Lovers.
The pictures hit him like a gut punch. Every vacation, every quiet night on the couch, every moment of laughter—all frozen in time, staring back at him through the glow of his screen.
He reaches for the plastic bag again. Three more pills.
This time, he fights the pull of sleep, eyes tracing every detail of Mark’s face in the photos. The way that lighter brown strand of hair falls in his face. His genuine smile. The way his shoulders filled out the burgundy sweater he bought him for Christmas. The warmth in his eyes, the way he used to look at him. Even each strand of stubble after he went days without shaving.
“I always hated when he wouldn’t shave” he mumbles to himself through slurred words.
Using his complete strength he sits up just long enough to grab three more pills and another big swig of beer.
The cloudy bag sits lifeless and empty on the coffee table next to him.
He lays back down with little effort. With the phone still in his hand, he opens their last conversation. His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a few minutes before typing, I miss you too.
He hits send.
The phone slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His eyes roll back, breath slowing, and his body sinking into the couch.
Then, a soft chime rings through the apartment.
Can I take you to lunch this week?
The message lingers on the screen, then fades to black.