Here’s my bit of flash fiction for this week. Feedback welcome, of course. :)
By Laura McHale Holland
She pulls on the bottom of her cashmere sweater and looks at the tires slashed, the windshield shattered, black paint poured on her dented vehicle and splashed all over the concrete walk and stairs. She tiptoes to the porch in her high heels, avoiding the paint. Upstairs her apartment door is ajar. She pauses, biting her red, red lips. He could have come and gone, leaving all her underwear strewn across the floor, her china broken in the kitchen, her desk upended, photos ripped in two. Or he could be inside, sitting in her old stuffed chair and smoking a meerschaum pipe. She’s tired of running, tired of the fear, tired of the sleepless nights year after year. She pulls a can of Mace from her purse, straightens her pencil skirt, stands up tall, kicks the door open and steps inside.