I Can’t Stand to Look at Them

Photo by Luwadlin Bosman on Unsplash

This fictional story started with a draft of the first paragraph. I didn't know where to go with the story, and let it sit for a few years. Then, when I took a flash fiction writing class, I dusted this off and finished it as one of the assignments. I am really proud of how it turned out.

The sounds of clinking glass remind me of wind chimes, which ordinarily soothe me, but when I open my eyes, unconsciously, they land on him. He unleashes his schoolgirl giggles while rubbing her swollen belly, the one I used to nuzzle my face in for comfort, oblivious to her treachery. And that bitch’s grin is so wide it rivals The Joker’s. I resist the urge to stride over and knock those pearly whites down like bowling ball pins.

I catch her quick glances, confirming I’m watching before she plants a big, wet kiss directly on his lips. I can see tiny strands of saliva connecting them as they part. He doesn’t know she’s doing it for show. She doesn’t mean any of it; she just wants to hurt me.

And it’s working.

I have to get a hold of myself, but I can’t. We’re at the center donor table at this stupid gala to raise money for I don’t know what: babies, drug addicts, a flood? None of that matters as my heart breaks open like a burrata over pasta.

I look at Roger. He’s a good husband. His fork scrapes against his teeth, and I instinctively place my hand on my 3-month-old, barely there baby bump. The rich couple he’s engaged in conversation with are nodding at whatever he’s saying, but I know they can’t hear him. I’m sitting right next to him, and all I hear is the gentle melody of the opera singer. I breathe in and allow her voice, accompanied by the world-renowned five-piece string quartet, to relax me. It’s the only reprieve I get from my thoughts as I get lost in the sounds.

The waiter interrupts my vacation: “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says as he places a stark white plate with a quarter cup of rice, topped with a single shrimp and some green garnish.

Is this supposed to fill me? This better be the appetizer to the appetizer. The scent of the sea reaches my nose and now I want to vomit.

I stare at my plate, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself.

“Honey, are you okay?” Roger places his hands on my belly. I involuntarily flinch and jerk my chair. Hoping he didn’t notice, I feign a smile. “Yes, love. I’m okay.” He immediately drops his hand.

“If you don’t like it. I’ll send it back. Do you want more? I can never tell.” He frowns.

He absolutely noticed.

I don’t care. Is no one else feeling the heat under these tacky sunshiny spotlight disco balls? It’s like a sauna in here.

“I have to get some air,” I say as I rise. I catch the victory in her eyes as I race out the door.