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Her by Amanda John
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It is easy to imagine how you would have felt towards her, meeting for the first time. I know you would have tried not to, would have battled your primitive instinct – that blatant maleness – and willed yourself to find her hideous. You would have thought of me, unremarkable, almost ugly in the wrong light, at the wrong angle. The comparison would have been momentous, too great to pass unnoticed. Her flawless symmetry would have caught your breath; her open beauty - her softness - would have stirred you, however reluctantly. I can’t blame you. Sex seems a greater power than us; hers certainly a stronger current than mine. Now, I have your suitcase open, spread guiltily on the bed; am edging and pushing belongings and memories into it, the climax of our demise. I wonder whether she has the potential to create such nostalgia, if she will keep a box of letters and champagne corks. Some souvenirs are difficult to pack. I wonder if I should leave them out, if they would want to leave the house. Without us they are lacking context; I’m not sure you would appreciate them, or keep them. A theatre ticket is just litter. A photograph is faceless, drab. You may be keen to discard these reminders of me, of plainness, of emerging disappointment, dissatisfaction. I am trying not to cry. I can remember – too vividly – your face that day. This bed, her on it; caught. You were staring; she was wild, exposed and adventurous, limbs stretched into positions that I could never maintain. You must have been drawing comparisons. I know I often fell short of physical expectations, unsaid requests falling away as our years together swelled and slowed. You caught my gaze and those years thudded to an abrupt halt. You hadn’t wanted it to happen this way, I know that. It just did. In one opening of the door, our bursting imperfections flooded to the tampering hands of that beautiful influencer. I am shutting your suitcase - too quickly - I have possibly packed too much, or too many useless items. You will find yourself lacking an essential as you rummage through the severed half of our relationship later in the evening. I can see her out of the window, waiting outside. She is so bold, brazen, I’m almost incredulous. She has tried to hide behind her car, but is too striking for any subtlety. I pull the suitcase down the stairs, floor boards bare, unfinished. You are waiting at the bottom. I step down to you, lean the case against the bottom stair. I think that there may be parting words, profound and enigmatic, but instead it is awkward and silent. You raise your hand slowly, a tiny wave curling through your thick fingers, and glance at the case, eyebrows raised. “Mine’s broken,” I offer. My voice breaks. I drag the case out of the door, to the waiting car. She takes my hand and I don’t look back.
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Second Place: One Last Call Third Place: The Last Train Home |
