Hands
“Hey – I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
“Yeah, it was…it was quiet.”
“Good night?”
“It was all right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“What’s in your hand?”
“My hand?”
“Don’t play dumb. Show me your hand.”
“It’s nothing – I fell.”
“You fell. Right. Have you been fighting?”
“No, I fell.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want.”
“Who was it?”
“I fell.”
“Sure, you fell. Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? Look at your knuckles. Are you the only man in the world that throws out his fist when he’s falling down? One fist? Because most of us, y’know, open our hands. Both of them.”
“I wasn’t thinking, I’ve had a couple of drinks. Just let it go, okay? It’s no big deal.”
“Who did you hit?”
“Look, I’m going to wash my hands, it’ll all wash away, you’ll see. It’ll be like I never even fell.”
“I’m talking to you, don’t walk away – hey!”
“See? Look at that, it’s all coming off? Just a little grit, a little bit of blood – my blood, no one else’s. I was just stupid, okay, let’s leave it at that. This isn’t anything to get worked up about.”
“Why are you lying to me?”
“Look – all gone. You can’t even tell I fell.”
“Your hand is swollen. Do you remember what I told you, if you kept fighting? Do you remember? Hey!”
“You said you’d leave.”
“Yes, I said I’d fucking leave!”
“Baby, I fell over.”
Paul Heatley has previously appeared in Thuglit, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Pink Factory, Shotgun Honey and the Flash Fiction Offensive, among others. He lives in the North East of England.
Image copyrighted by Pinterest user MADEINVENICE
