Exit Wounds by Sara Travis

I thought I knew exactly what love looked like. Love looked like her collection of hair products lining the bathroom shelf. Love looked like the odd pearl earring I found down the back of the couch. It looked like the thick, red, bobbly scarf she left on the hooks by the front door, and it looked like the faint lipstick mark on the wine glass by the sink. Love was in the way she swished her hair as she walked, and the Raymond Chandler novels she read in the café around the corner. Love was the stack of glossy magazines on the coffee table, the freshly laundered lingerie on the radiator, the not-so-secret box of chocolates stashed under the couch.

Love was not who I was expecting, and it was not something I had predicted.

I hear the jangle of keys and my heart stops. She’s home. Where’s best to wait? I hadn’t thought this far ahead, the living room or the bedroom? Bedroom might be better, more romantic, element of surprise and all that, but I’d have to cross the hall to get there and now she’s coming through the door, I don’t have time, living room it is, and I’m fiddling with my tie, licking my palm to flatten my hair and left hand or right hand to offer the flowers? Right hand, does it even matter, because now she’s standing in front of me and our eyes meet and it’s everything I’d imagined it would be and more.

Silence. The keys hit the floor. She staggers back into the doorway and her eyes grow wild. I take a cautious step forward, proffering the roses and she … screams.

“Sophia …”

“How do you know my name? How did you get in here? Get out! I’m phoning the police!”

This isn’t going as I’d planned. I feel the panic rising in my chest, I don’t want to scare her, she just has to know how I feel.

“Sophia, please,” I cry, her screams drowning out my words, “I just had to let you know, I love -”

She throws a photo frame at my head, and I duck to avoid its impact. This is swiftly followed by a telephone book, an owl ornament, a potted plant, anything she can lay her hands on. I launch myself past her and sprint for the front door, desperate to get away from all of her. She slams it shut behind me, screaming and cursing. And then I realise my fingers are trapped in the door frame; an almighty yelp escapes my lips. My very own exit wound. Cradling my crumpled, bruised fingers along with my ego, I turn to leave.