Caught in a Storm by Glo Curl

An hour into my afternoon walk, the sky darkened. Within minutes I was drenched, my showerproof jacket scant protection from the slicing rain and penetrating cold. The solitary granite cottage in the distance was my only hope for shelter. I headed towards it. “Pete?” 

I could scarcely get the word out, my face felt like a block of ice. 

“Sandra?” He looked me up and down, then pulled the door wide open, ushering me inside. I hesitated briefly. It would only be for a short while, then I could make my escape—again. I instinctively felt for my mobile in my belt bag. 

“What are you doing here?” We spoke simultaneously. 

“You first,” I said. I'd moved to Cornwall a decade ago, he was a Londoner and always would be. “Holiday.” His response was more abrupt than I'd expected. Did he still hate me after all these years? “Your turn.” 

“I live here, moved down not long after we split up.” 

“You mean after you fucked off, without even saying goodbye.” His words were laced with venom. I shuddered; a long-forgotten thud of panic struck me square in the chest. I tried to swallow. 

"Come on Pete, it was years ago." 

"I will never forgive you." 

I knew the signs; it would be useless trying to reason with him. I hardly dare move but forced myself to turn and grab the front door handle. His hand came down heavily on mine; I lashed out, punching him hard in the face. He toppled back onto the flagstones; there must’ve been a loud crack but I didn’t hear it or see the blood. I was running as fast as my legs would carry me, back into the driving rain, punching the number into my phone. 

Published in Issue #18

No comments:

Post a Comment