It was a great run

“We’ve been through a lot, but we’ve had a healthy relationship. It really was a great run,” I said to him. He didn’t respond, but I knew he was thinking about what a big idiot I was. He made that very clear the last time we hung out, acting out and bruising my chest with his punishing blows. Truthfully, his actions were what put me over the edge and I knew I was making the right decision. He was getting too old. The boys always gave me a hard time when I showed up to events with him on my arm.

I half expected him to go off on me, but he was silent and cold to the touch. I started to panic even though he was taking it well. My faced flushed and my palms grew sweaty. The guilt weighed me down like an indigestible six pound burrito.

“Look, I know it’s just a festival, but it means a lot to me. There’s this girl and I can’t screw this up. She wants to go and even though I can’t pronounce the name of the festival, I need to go. I want to go. I know there’s more out there and I can’t settle for you and stay here. You know that. You’ll find someone else, I know it. Someone who can love you for you.”

The man behind the barred counter window coughed. “Are we doing business? If not, I’m going to call the cops.”

There was a time, in our youth, when we wouldn’t put up with that lip. The fact that his comment didn’t bother us signaled better than anything that it was over.

“I guess this is the end,” I said, stroking his long shaft. “Thank you for everything. It’s been so wild and I’ll never forget any of our…”

“Sir.”

I stepped forward and offered him to the man behind the counter who reached through the bars and tugged. As he pulled, I only held on tighter. It was instinctive. I couldn’t let go. When he finally pried him from my warm, sweaty hands, he held it up to the light and snickered.

“I see you’ve filed the serial number off. It’s an older model, too, so I can only give you a few hundred.”

It felt like he had shoved a knife into my chest and twisted. I felt the tears coming on so I just lowered my head and nodded. The cash register rang and the door slid out.

“…Three…Four…Five hundred,” the man counted from a large wad of cash and started to laugh, shaking his head. “What kind of name for a gun is ‘Fabulous Freddy Giraffe’ anyway?”

On the way home, I looked at Freddy buckled in the passenger’s seat and seated atop the ten grand. “Can you ever forgive me?” I asked.

Reviews

[Marie]

Great as always. I had to read it twice, of course, to get the full impact. You do flash fiction so well that it's inspired me to do a couple of short shorts.