The Anniversary
Slice of Life Valentine's Day flash fiction contest
I shimmy awkwardly up the brick wall, clutching the windowpane with my fingertips, breathing harshly as my arms shake. I pause momentarily, trying to calm myself, allowing my shoulders to slacken. Heaving a deep breath of courage, I swing my legs up and over the edge of the roof, my partner’s hand grabbing my ankle to pull me over the edge securely. I grimace as the bricks scrape unforgivingly against my bare arms, groaning as he drags me up onto the roof, wincing when he lets me go and I tumble to the ground.
“Ow,” I bite out, shoving myself off the ground and brushing off the grime I’ve accumulated.
A spotlight beams nearby, sweeping across rooftops not too different from the one we are perched on. As quickly as I had gotten up, I hit the ground again, yanking my boyfriend down with me. He yelps when he makes contact with the ground, but I clamp my hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, hissing a warning to be quiet as I press my back to the ground.
“They’re scanning rooftops, lay flat,” I order, slowly removing my hand from his mouth.
He huffs in annoyance, squirming as he tries to get relatively comfortable.
“You could’ve just said something,” he pouts, tearing his hand away from where it was laced with mine.
“Seriously? Now you can’t hold my hand?” I ask, raising my eyebrows dramatically.
“Not after what you did,” he snorts, crossing his arms over his chest in frustration.
“What, the killing? We kill people all the time, Chris, what are you on about?” I roll my eyes, his annoyance bleeding into me now.
“No,” he snaps, his voice taking on the tone of a toddler just before they throw a tantrum. “You forgot our anniversary.”
“I did not,” I argue, running through the day in my head, trying to remember what the date is.
He wrenches his phone out of his pocket, flashing the screen at me and holding it irritatingly close to my face. I’m about to snap back at him with a retort, but seeing the date in glowing white letters just above the time makes my words die in my throat. Crap, I did forget.
“Romance is dead,” he declares theatrically, flopping onto his side, facing firmly away from me.
“Romance isn’t dead, I’m bloody and tired,” I reply, tapping his shoulder to get him to roll back over.
He turns back to me hesitantly, watching me with sad puppy eyes until I sigh.
“Do you want to go out to dinner after the cops stop looking and I scrub this guy’s blood off of me?” I offer, smiling a little at the way his mouth blooms into a grin.
“Yes,” he agrees happily, lacing his fingers with mine again. “Italian?”
“Sounds good.”
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