It was a three-uncle job.
The first when she was a scrawny preteen, hunkered tightly over a football, having insisted naively she could play with the neighborhood boys who were older, beefier, infinitely careless about her person.
“Uncle,” she squealed, and he pulled them off her, yanking and tugging at the other boys’ belts and jackets until he reached her, sniffling at the bottom of the heap.
The second when she lost the last of her week’s worth of gas money at cards, never having mastered euchre, the secret of signaling to her partner, or the requisite game face.
“Uncle,” as she slammed the cards on the table with tinny bravura, before he graciously offered to give her a lift to school and work until payday because she was on his way and he liked the company during his commute.
The third when her tiny, sharp knuckles hit the back of the pub table after one, two, too-many tequilas slammed during his going-away party prompted arm wrestling dares.
“Uncle,” she cried, no, really cried, tears dribbling weakly down her cheeks, mistaken for symptoms of physical pain as she rubbed her bruised hand against her heart.
Three-uncles, and the job was done.
He loved her and he couldn't leave without her, wouldn't live without her.
_____
Copyright 2014 Femme Malheureuse
Submission to Revolver magazine online | WANTED flash fiction contest
Prompt: First line mandatory; Rules: 300 words or less.
[Photo: Original by Will Foster (mazakar) via Flickr, modified for size and color]
