It felt as though someone had died; the way they sort of spat at one another instead of spoke. And sat on opposite ends of the couch, eyes tired. I sat with my shoulders tensed up, shrugged, jaw clenched, clutching my handbag in my lap.

“Oh, make yourself at home,” he said, clearing his throat.

I smiled as my shaky hands lifted up my handbag before it landed on the floor with a loud thud amidst silence.

I glanced up. I caught her cobalt eyes with mine–she smiled. Then grimaced.

So I grimaced back.

“Well, how about some dinner, huh?” he asked, standing.

A chill swept over me. Damn drafty house.

He scratched his eyebrow for the third time while she sat and adjusted her skirt with eyes darting back and forth from the floor to me. Me to him. Back to the floor.

My thighs squeaked against the plastic-wrapped chair I sat in.

His eyes scanned my form at this sound–from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. She watched him watch me.

“I should go,” I said.

“What? What about dinner?” he asked, expression between startled and angry, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

He remained standing. I stood up.

Cobalt eyes left the room while buttoning up her mint green sweater; I think she was trying to appear unaffected.

He leaned in and laced his fingers through mine.

My eyes were dead, though, you see? My mouth was blank. 

I let my fingers slip from his grip as I backed away.

“Why?” he asked.

“What color are my eyes?” I quipped, standing too far from him for him to cheat.

“What?” he scratched his eyebrow again.

“That…that’s why.” I said. After slamming the screen door behind me, I yelled over my shoulder, “They’re emerald.”


This piece of flash fiction was contributed to SickLitMagazine anonymously. 

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