Emotion | Flash Fiction

Running with Scissors

Meeting my ex is a bad idea — right?

Image of unhappy girl, laying head on her arm on a bridge parapet — Hieu Van on Pixabay

One text. It has flipped the switch and opened the floodgates.

I thought I’d shut that down, walked away, cut out the rot, burned the bridge, closed the book, watched that ship sail over the horizon.

But it’s worming back in: The idea, the lure, that hot, insidious temptation, scorching me like a brand, making my heart race and my nipples hard.

Haven’t I been hurt enough? Torn apart, crushed like roadkill, dragged behind a galloping horse, tarred and feathered, trampled underfoot then abandoned.

Why then, are tiny green shoots of hope pushing up from the pile of dirt where he left me?

Why now, when I’d shoved up on my knees and was almost ready to stand unassisted?

Tragic. Doomed. Pitiable. I curse my optimism. Wish I could scour away the cling of fond thoughts with wire wool, take a blowtorch to my wild imagination and grind vain hope into ashes.

I’d cut out my foolish, traitorous heart if it wasn’t already defunct and useless, unrecognizably battered and shredded from his, “So long, let’s stay friends,” speech.