Ava caressed the shirt to her cheek, breathing in the lingering aroma of a woman’s perfume.
She swallowed, pulse thrumming, and rubbed its sleeve across her dribbling mouth.
Memories of lazy Sunday mornings and whispered I love you’s turned bitter as the perfume’s exotic notes enraged her senses.
Footsteps crossed the room; Mark appeared in the doorway, shirtless, oblivious. Ava’s voice trembled, ‘What is this scent?’ Mark’s eyes flicked down to the shirt, confusion blooming into guilt.
He stumbled through excuses, voice low, ‘I… it’s nothing. A gift from a client.’
Her heartbeat thundered. Each denial felt heavier than the last. She laid the shirt on the bed and stepped back, arms crossed.
She watched him, searching for remorse. His shoulders sagged. He ran a hand through his hair, unable to meet her gaze. Finally, admitting the betrayal came in a whisper, ‘I’ve been with her.’ The name that followed tasted like poison.
That night, the house was silent except for their footsteps; two ghosts in separate rooms. Ava lay awake, haunted by the scent. She replayed every detail of their years together: The ring he presented beneath a rosebush; the lullaby he hummed when their daughter fell sick; the promises whispered on their wedding night. None of it felt real anymore. The perfume had rewritten their history.
This story has a familiar end. There’s a heavy candlestick, frenzied blows to the head and blood-soaked sheets, which all leads to a future episode of cable TV’s She Murdered for Love.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 