The car door slammed shut as expletives clipped from your mouth. You were wearing the brown dress, the one that fell just above your knees, and marched down the sidewalk. He followed, rolled the window down. Told you to get back into the car. You said you’d rather walk home than be in the car with him.
Date night turned into smudged eyeliner. You pulled a tissue from your purse and wiped the red lipstick off until your lips were bruised. You tried to remember the last time your lips were bruised on purpose. With want and desire. Not from wiping away indiscretions.
You removed your clenched wedges. They dangled from your fingers as you cut across the grass. All you wanted was to feel something. So you aimed your purse for the rocks and stubbed your toe on the curb. As blood brimmed to the edge of your nail, you watched it flow, an absolute. Only blood could draw feelings.
Throwing things seemed as natural as breathing. You picked up your purse and the contents strewn about. A couple of ink pens, the water bill, a broken compact. The cigarettes you said you’d quit. You thought about how not throwing things would be better, when you noticed the kids playing soccer across the street. Maybe you should kick things instead.
He was gone now. Probably headed home. If he thought anyone saw, that’s exactly what he would do. You wiped blood off your toe with blades of grass and stepped back into your shoes. You straightened your dress. Smoothed your hair. You walked a few blocks over to the park, the evening sky fading from pink to purple to black.
The swing set was moments away from blending in with the woods. You took a seat and pumped your legs. You leaned back as your legs swung forward and felt the cool air rush through your hair. You opened your eyes as your legs swung back down, blood dried into the edges of the quick of your toe. You thought about how you should probably walk home. No telling how long the feelings would last this time. The streetlights blinked on as you rhythmically kicked the air.
About The Author
Lindsey Heatherly is a writer born and raised in Upstate South Carolina. She has words in or forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Red Fez, Coffin Bell Journal, Emerge Literary Journal, and more. She spends her time at home raising a strong, confident daughter. Find her on Twitter: @rydanmardsey
Photo courtesy of: https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/flower