Flash Fiction by E. Allen Foxx
He was cheating on me. I knew it. He had been cheating for a while, and I was finally starting to accept it. I smiled. “Want some more wine, babe?” I asked him. “Yes,” he replied, barely looking up from his plate. “Everything is so delicious,” he added, shoveling another forkful of food in his mouth.
Was that bitch’s cooking this good? I thought. I smiled instead and said, “I’m glad you like it. I made your favorite tonight.” “I know,” he said. “You’re always so good to me.” I wish I could say the same, I thought, pouring myself another glass as well. He continued to eat.
“How was your meeting?” I asked. “Oh, we canceled it.” I know; I checked. “Did you? What happened?” “Nothing much,” he remarked, “the client had to reschedule.” Reschedule my ass. I had gone to his office to drop off his lunch, being the dutiful wife, I always was, the smiling, happy, always-put-my-husband-first wife, and he had betrayed me. I saw him leave the office 10 minutes before his meeting was scheduled, so I followed him. He had gone to a store and bought flowers. When was the last time he brought me flowers? Our anniversary? Maybe not even then.
“You didn’t make any stops?” I asked sweetly. “Stops? That’s an odd question, of course not.” Liar. My expression faltered for a moment, but I quickly recovered, taking a swift sip of wine. “Just asking,” I said. We finish eating. Afterwards, I start to clear the dishes from the table while my honey heads to the bathroom, leaving his suit jacket on the chair. It just sits there, waiting, as if calling to me. Just a quick look, I tell myself as I rummage through his pockets. I find it—a receipt. It’s for flowers.
Just as my rage boils over, his phone chimes. I grab it, trying to suppress my rage. It’s a message from Jackie, his assistant: “Ordered the necklace as you asked. It should be on its way.” I lose it just as he walks out of the bathroom. “Hey, honey, was that my phone?” he asks as I grab a steak knife from the table. I lunge at him, tackling him to the floor as I strike again and again. I only stop when the doorbell rings. Shaking myself from my trance, I slowly rise and walk to the door, peeking through the peephole, his blood still warm on my hands. I don’t even wipe it off before reaching for the handle. No one is there, but items are on the ground. I open the door and pick up the flowers my husband left for me. I also grab the little box beside them and open it to find a beautiful necklace. Engraved on it is the message: “To my loving wife. I love and appreciate all you do for me.”
Bio: E. Allen Foxx is a fiction writer with an interest in character-driven stories that blend literary realism with dark or psychological elements. Their work focuses on intimate moments that unravel into something deeper and more dangerous.
Cover photo by: Pexels/Jacob Moseholt, Edited by The Yard
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