Forks and Flashes

The shadows crashed into my eyes. Drumming, dust specks in the air, disorganized. I clenched the bed clothes and blinked myself calm. My heart settled into a slower beat. The air was crushed ice cold. I crunched the fabric to cover my goose bumps and realized that I was not wrapped in my comforter. What the hell, plaid squares in homey tones, why am I tangled in the table cloth?

The black white tiles were cold against my skin. Strange reflections cavorted in the squares. Tingling reflections. A car passed outside, twin beams bursting through chinks in the window curtains and fingering the floor, cabinets, oven. The oven smelled strange, muttered about burned things, charred skin, but it was just my oven. I broke out in a sweat. What woke me-why was I sleeping here in the first-why is it so cold?

The last thing had an answer. The front door stood open. December hissed into the house.

Something glittered next to my hand. Silver. I pulled the table cloth tight over my shoulders and reached for the object. Smooth, sharp. I tapped the fork against my cheek. I should stand up, close the door, throw the fork in the sink or better the dishwasher, it was dirty. The drum in my ribcage convinced me to stay still awhile longer and besides, the fork was oddly comforting to clench. Better than nothing, its just shadows silly. Just a bad dream. But what was the dream?

God, I needed sleep. Close the door, throw the fork, grab a glass of water or better yet bourbon, slip upstairs, hide in the double bed with the night light on. The fork was sharp, but dirty, what was that stuff on the prongs? I sniffed. Same as the oven, spicy and something that made my stomach lurch. Did I drop this fork at dinner?

Dinner. My mind flashed back, skipped over the hours spent in sleep. The lamps were bright, the shadows banished to the cellar. Plaid squares on homey table. Yellow flowers in a vase. Forks on plates. Yellow light on wine glasses and washed grapes. Laughter. My boyfriend was upstairs. Robert was with me.

“You try the enchiladas yet, Corey?” He speared a slice, waved it in front of my nose with that dashing smile. “They're amazing!”

You're amazing. That was what I thought. “Tasty!” You called them. Tasty, my mind mimicked. The curve of your muscles, your chest beneath that black pinstripe shirt, the sinews in yours neck, the curve of your black curled hair.

I leaned forward and let you feed me the spiced morsel. I imagined my fingers tangled, tangled in your hair.

Tangled, like the tune of the piano. Now, why did I think of that, of all things? Well, Robert did play so well. More than that, he listened when I stumbled over notes. He would lean over me so that the air was filled with his scent and my vision blurred and my stomach fluttered and my fingers dabbled the keys in no particular order. Then, he would laugh, and pick up my hands and turn the music score and put my hands down and pretend to be stern. Then, I would laugh and pound the ivory a little more and he would lean closer and it would happen all over again.

He listened when I spoke too. All my silly ramblings, so silly compared to his philosophy but Robert, god, you leaned toward me anyway, with that smile of yours and those big, interested, alert eyes. That was why...

That was why at dinner. Dinner. At dinner when you pulled your fork away I did not reciprocate. Instead, I leaned closer to you. You started when I touched your arm. But it wasn't a surprise.

“Corey?” And your eyebrows went up. And you touched me back. And Alex was upstairs and our breath mingled and our hands slid up each others arms and our lips tangled and I was on fire and I knew you wanted it to.

We knew who it was that clip clopped down the stairs in his penny loafers. We could have stopped, pulled back, but there was no way to take it back and why should we have stopped when our eyes would have replayed it, betrayed it, anyway?

“What's going on here?”

Alex grabbed my wrist, tore me from the table. I held onto the table cloth, pulled it free, dropped it as useless. Wine spilled everywhere. Grapes bounced. Dishes crashed.

Robert stood up. “Don't throw her around like that!”

“God damn you! How long has this been going on!”

“Five minutes!”

“Liar!”

“Let her go!”

I sobbed and felt his fingers tighten like a vice. “Please, it's never happened before. I don't even know why--”

Alex pulled something black from a drawer. “Guess you two picked the wrong five minutes for a fling, eh!”

I screamed. Alex aimed the gun at Robert. I grabbed the fork from my plate and the prongs pulled skin off my boyfriend's cheek, gouged valleys across his chin. The gun went off in a cloud of roar. The bullet missed. The fingers dropped the gun and threw me into the wall. And then, Robert--

Robert. In the black dark kitchen, I dropped my fork. It clattered. I jumped to my feet, ran to the open door, screamed.

“Robert! Robert!”

“You won't find him here.” Pinpricks up my spine. I turn. Alex stood by the door of our sport car, tossing his keys in the air, catching them, smiling.