microfiction: The Ex.

The Ex.


I hear the door shut. That familiar creak and sucking thwack. "Hello?" My ex calls from the ground floor, with a question in his voice. A question that a woman knows. She feels it in her toes. It vibrates her bones--even across rooms and floors around bends and through doors. I dab on the last bit of unctuous gloss and butterflies escape my lips as I part them. They flutter and crash into the broken fogged reflective looking glass. I creak down the stairs. Our eyes meet, searching. And though our love, smoggy and opaque and writhing in its death throes, he wants me.