The needle skipped again. Chatter over incessant seas, love’s death grip seized me. I moved the vase of lifeless tulips—flopping haphazardly—back to the coffee table, in anticipation. As if it mattered where the insignificant tulips sat, but it did. Affairs of such discretion dictated ambiance. Now the music must be changed.
Walter entered the room pulse racing, tormenting me further as I poured the wine. His eyes lapped me up as a puppy would affection. Juncture of life and death just beyond my fingertips, pumping with the liquid I craved, sustenance.
Death ripe on my lips, my tongue snaked the corner of my mouth, inspecting for remains. I stood and righted my cufflinks.
Mimicking the convexity of the tulips’ stems, Walter’s body lay limp on the floor. The last drops of wine pooled on the plush rug. Shame he never got a taste.
Perfect placement for the tulips but the music was off, love never fit quite right.
© Grace Black
Written for Flash! Friday Micro Fiction Contest