Fracture

He promised to meet me at baggage claim.

That was before.

Six months later, I find my daisy-patterned luggage on my own and depart the airport hand-in-hand with souvenirs that I’ll keep.

He drove me to the airport. We embraced each other in his car. He clung to me as if it was the last time.

The taxi takes me home.

I take myself out to dinner. Sushi. I’m trying to be kind to myself since he wasn’t.

He hated sushi.

I order eel sashimi, something that would make him gag.

He enters the restaurant. With her.

The raw fish turns rotten on my tongue. Suddenly I’m fighting for air. Am I choking? The eel swims down my throat. A knife clashes onto the floor as the hibachi chef rushes to pump my stomach. Then the world goes dark.

I wake up in a white room with white sheets, an IV in my arm and a monitor beeping to the beat of my heart. A russet-haired man in scrubs jots something on a pad.

“What happened?”

He glances up. “You’re going to be okay. You have the slightest fracture in your aorta. It will require treatment, medication, and maybe surgery or therapy. But you’ll survive.”

I exhale. It takes effort.

“Oh, and someone left you flowers.”

I turn to my left to meet a bouquet of daisies. There’s no note. I guess it doesn’t matter who sent them.

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