A change of heart
Seated in front of the bathroom mirror, the harsh light meat-counter blue-white, she made a single incision in her chest. Her heart quivered.
“Come out” she said.
“Shan’t!” the heart replied petulantly, attempting to burrow further back.
Sighing, she cracked open her sternum and grabbed the heart in her fist.
“You need to stop this” she said. “I’m replacing you.”
“You can’t just swap me out whenever you feel like it”, the heart moaned.
“But of course I can” she said. “You’re in denial right now, that’s all. I’m told it’s part of the process.”
Shortly afterwards, whilst washing her hands in the bathroom sink, (the old heart moaning softly in a box in the hotel mini bar, the new heart beating contentedly in her chest) she wondered if she should also change her hair colour. Baby steps she reminded herself. Others often cautioned her for her impetuousness.
He had broken things off the night before. The boy from Newcastle, with the singsong accent and eyes that danced. She could no longer recall his reasoning, not that it mattered any longer. It seemed an odd decision, she reflected, for him to fly them both from London to New York only to break things off.
She looked at the empty shell of him, lying on the bed. His chest was cracked open, the space where his heart once resided lay empty. His heart, was now hers, so she might know it.
She briefly toyed with the idea of leaving her own heart in the hotel mini bar, but elected instead to pack it in it’s special box and take it with her. Better to be safe than sorry.
Feeling a pang of guilt for the minimum wage maid whose job it would be to clean up this mess of her love life, she left a large tip next to the bed before picking up her bag and taking her leave.
Upon leaving the room, his heart in her chest ached a little, but these things were to be expected.
Break ups could be tough on hearts.