Twisted. Ankle.

I have to grade the pain on a scale of 1 to 10
I want to say maybe 6
To me everything feels like a 10
But 10 is probably a dangerous grade
One from which you are not meant to survive.

If you had not fought with me this morning
I would be home now
Instead of walking out angry
Ankle twisting on the treacherous curb
I’d be home instead of here thinking of a number.

I  debate buying you a gift on my way back
Maybe a chic scarf
But would that be smart?
The message I’d be sending to you
Fight with me and I’ll gift you a nice present.

A nurse wraps a brace around my ankle
I picture a scarf
Around her delicate neck
And in my twisted imagination
You are jealous, at least a 6 on a scale of 1 to 10.

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About fictionfuture

An experiment in minimalist fiction View all posts by fictionfuture

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