Micro-fiction

"A Bird in the Hand" by Artist Lisa Rae Winant

Image used by permission of the Artist
12 x 8 / oil on panel

She walked around the outdoor party looking for him. She searched in the shadows cast by the tree’s massive limbs and through the gaps of space between each group of guests. Astrid quickened her pace, darting in and out of the crowd trying to survey the mass of people, scanning for John’s face. Lanterns hanging from tree branches emitted a magical yellow glow that made the backyard come alive against the night sky. It was a shame that she could not enjoy her own housewarming party and instead had to spend it alone, searching for him. She scanned the crowd once more as she reached her front door steps, and finding nothing, went inside. Astrid stood in the dark of her empty house, her feet aching from a night spent standing in four inch heels. She didn’t mind the pain so much tonight; she welcomed any form of distraction that would keep her mind unavailable to focus on the overwhelming knot that now occupied her stomach. They fought occasionally like they did tonight, as any couple in their twenties that was struggling to pay the bills did, but tonight she was worried. Astrid wasn’t worried about where her relationship now stood with John or what he might think of her; he’d told her more times than there are stars in the sky that she was his one and only. No. Astrid was more concerned with finding John upstairs in a pool of his own blood. Last winter he’d tried to kill himself with a kitchen knife after Astrid called off their relationship and walked out of their one bedroom flat, claiming he had already given up on the relationship weeks before with wandering eyes at a sidewalk yard sale. The doctor said he wasn’t serious about killing himself because the cuts on his wrists and forearms ran left-to-right, avoiding most arteries and veins, but his attempt at suicide was pretty convincing that night when she scrubbed the floor tiles until they were white again and she was red from head to toe.

She climbed the staircase to the bedroom hoping to find him sleeping, perhaps exhausted from the shouting match that took place earlier that evening. Climbing higher, she traced their purple flower wallpaper with trembling hands as the distance between her and the thin beam of light under the bedroom door grew smaller with each advance. Astrid’s worried hand hovered above the door handle for a moment and then twisted on the white knob. Opening it, she saw John slouched over on the edge of the bed with his head down. A surge of warmth washed over her, restoring color to her cheeks. He looked up at Astrid as she entered the bedroom and immediately her nerves calmed when she could see that he was alright. He removed a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jean pocket and placed a single cancer stick in his mouth. John sucked on the cigarette letting the smoke pool in his lungs, and contemplated whether he should exhale and continue breathing or hold onto the hot smoke until his eyes rolled up into their respective sockets. He decided on the former and kept his eyes on Astrid’s as he let the smoke exit through his nostrils. He didn’t know if she loved him anymore and neither did she, but he knew that he didn’t want to die and that was enough for the both of them.