prompt: It's the middle of the night. The phone rings.
It is two o’ clock in the morning and Marie is sitting in her living room smoking a cigarette. Her eyes feel tired and she briefly wonders about sleep before the idea exhales from her mouth like smoke. ‘I am alone,’ she thinks and the idea feels sodden. She tests it aloud to the empty air of her house, “I am alone,” and her words reverberate against the walls before stilling and hanging above her head. Marie sighed and the phone rang. She felt a pang in her heart- briefly and stupidly as she wished it was her mother. It wasn’t, she already knew who it was. Marie allowed the phone to continue to ring, nearly appreciating how it matched the loneliness above her head. ‘Like a halo,’ she thought belatedly. She rubbed her hand against her mouth and stood, stumbling towards the phone. “Hello?”
“I love you, darling. Come home.”
“Henri,” she breathed out the name and a smile wore against her face, “Henri, I miss you.”
“I know you do, Marie. Come home to me.”
“I do not want to hurt anymore.”
“Come home, Marie.” She listened to him breathe -in and out, in and out, in and- before hanging up the phone, putting out her cigarette and lighting another. She stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the light and was greeted to the sight of herself in the mirror. Marie stepped closer, saw her sagging eyes, her frowning mouth and the red handprint of Henri against her cheek. She pressed her own hand against it, and her other hand wrapping around her wrist. She held it close as though the hand was of her lover’s. “I am alone,” she said and watched as her reflection mouthed the words silently. “Yes,” she said and left the bathroom, leaving on the light. She grabbed her pack of cigarettes, her keys and left out the front door.
“I love you, darling. Come home.”
“Henri,” she breathed out the name and a smile wore against her face, “Henri, I miss you.”
“I know you do, Marie. Come home to me.”
“I do not want to hurt anymore.”
“Come home, Marie.” She listened to him breathe -in and out, in and out, in and- before hanging up the phone, putting out her cigarette and lighting another. She stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the light and was greeted to the sight of herself in the mirror. Marie stepped closer, saw her sagging eyes, her frowning mouth and the red handprint of Henri against her cheek. She pressed her own hand against it, and her other hand wrapping around her wrist. She held it close as though the hand was of her lover’s. “I am alone,” she said and watched as her reflection mouthed the words silently. “Yes,” she said and left the bathroom, leaving on the light. She grabbed her pack of cigarettes, her keys and left out the front door.