Red Fingernails

I can’t remember her face. After all the time we spent together, I can barely remember her face anymore. Every day, it fades a little more until there’s nothing but the hazy shape of a smile and red fingernails resting on my arm. It’s funny, but those fingernails seem to be all I can really remember about her in clear detail. She used to spend mornings meticulously touching up her nails. It was the smell of the polish that always woke me up. I’d watch her hands, bleary-eyed, as the brush stroked in one direction until those nails lit up like the early sun.

When we made love, she would drive those nails into my back and I couldn’t get enough. At first, I told her to stop. But I missed that feeling when the scratches healed, like a part of her had left me, and I asked her to keep doing it. Keep doing it. But it’s a shame that only the bad times left their mark on me. I still have a scar from when she scratched my face in a fight we had. I made out with her sister when we were both drunk, but it was really just an accident. I wasn’t going to go all the way with her or anything. Who am I kidding? I deserved it. I deserved it all. And she had every right to leave me. I can’t even remember her face. Then again, maybe it just wasn’t as memorable…


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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session VIII

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