Tuesday 25 February 2020

Flash Fiction: Romance is Dead

Nerves flutter in my chest at the prospect of seeing his face again. I can't say I'm fond of Valentine's Day, but it’s supposed to be the most romantic day of the year… the perfect day for what I’ve got planned. I finish applying my velvety red lipstick with the precision of an artist, before stepping back and taking in my look, pleased with the woman smiling back at me from the mirror. 

I smooth out the slinky fabric of my dress with manicured fingertips and slip my feet into a pair of black satin heels, fresh from the box. My phone vibrates with a message from my sister. I frown and glance down at the glowing screen.

Good luck! Text if you need rescuing.

I smile, and slip the phone back into my bag, next to his Valentine’s Day gift. I feel quietly confident I won't need rescuing.

My heels hit the pavement, glistening with freshly fallen rain, as I make my way to the restaurant. A steady rhythm, echoing the anxious beating of my heart. 

One. 
Two. 
Three. 
Four.

He should be arriving in about ten minutes, so I sink into my seat and pretend to browse the menu whilst I wait impatiently. Italian was never my preference, and he had never been good at timekeeping. It's not long until I hear the familiar sound of his voice. I smile, as I peer over my menu at him. He’s smiling too, as he gazes into the eyes of the woman by his side. 

Her eyes.

My own eyes turn into narrow slits as I watch them being guided to a nearby table. A smile plays upon my scarlet lips as I shake my head slowly. It shouldn't be this easy to track someone down. People shouldn't discuss their plans on their public social media pages. 

It's criminally stupid. 

Fair game. 

I fend off an involuntary shudder as he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She blushes, and tucks a lock of golden hair behind her ear.

The date was painfully slow. I give up on my too-chewy steak to lurk outside and wait for them, knowing they’re grabbing a drink before heading home. I shiver, and slip on my gloves. Clouds of condensation form in the air as I breathe. 

Inhale. 
Exhale. 
I think warm thoughts.

It's not long before they spill out of the restaurant, stumbling slightly, in a wine-induced haze. I fall into line behind them, absorbing myself in a huddle of women chanting something about Galentine’s Day. We file into a cocktail bar and join the throng, buzzing around the bar like bluebottles delighting in a decaying corpse. I smile inwardly at the comparison as I pull his gift out of my bag. 

I'm so close I can breathe in the scent of his aftershave. The one I bought him for Christmas, days before the crushing news of his sordid affair hit me. Days before he left, taking my heart and my trust with him. 

Bergamot.
Cedarwood.
Anger.

Memories bubble to the surface and I bite my lip so hard a globule of deep red blood beads on my skin. I inhale the scent deep into my lungs one last time, as I slide the kitchen knife between his ribs, and dissolve back into the bluebottles.

You'd think in this day and age, people wouldn't leave spare keys under plant pots, but it suited me down to the ground.

When I needed a kitchen knife with her finger prints on it.

---

Roxie Key

@RoxieAdelleKey