The prompt for the second Flash Fiction for November was The day the mirror shattered.
The first time Eleanor was in Peter’s house, she felt as if she were in an art gallery or a palace, although the house was only three stories with a winding staircase.
On her first visit, he’d cooked her a meal of orange duck, the tenderest veggies that she’d ever eaten. Desert was a concoction of sherbet, meringue and the type of chocolate whose flavour stayed in your mouth for hours because you wanted it to. He said he’d made everything himself.
After they ate, he gave her a tour of the first floor furnishings, telling her the history of each piece and commenting on how the colours had been selected as much as the history of the piece.
In the hallway as he helped her on with her coat after calling a cab, he showed her a mirror. The finish was marred with black spots. The frame was gold leaf with delicate curlicues. “My best piece. It came from Versailles.”
Over the next few months Eleanor and Peter dated going to the best restaurants, the theatres, museums. He introduced her to his friends, mostly businessmen she had read about on the financial pages. She suspected half their wives were the second Mrs. based on the age difference.
At first, she loved that he wanted to buy her clothes before each outing rather than accept what she had chosen. Then he took her to the hairdresser to change the style she’d worn for so long, and although she liked the new shorter style, Peter was beginning to make her uncomfortable.
Some months into the relationship, she noticed he didn’t want to hear anything about her work as a college archaeology professor, about the dig she’d been on last summer. “It’s too bad you won’t be able to go back this year,” he said. She had already been planning on it. A little voice told her to discuss it later.
When she picked up a marble statue of Venus, he jumped from his seat, took it from her and put it back in the measuring equal distance with his hands to make sure it was in the same even spot as before. “Everything is where it should be. Don’t touch anything.”
“I think, I need to go home. I’ve work for tomorrow’s lectures.”
“I thought you were staying the night.” Each word was followed by a pause.
“I don’t like plans changing.”
Eleanor thought about it. No matter what she suggested for an evening, what plans, she suggested he changed them. That same little voice told her not to end the relationship at that moment.
“You should have told me earlier,” he said.
She started to put on her coat, but he grabbed her, shoved her. Her head hit the Versailles mirror. The force knocked it off the wall, the shards landing both on the cabinet and floor below.
When she put her hand on the back of her head, it was wet from the blood.
“Look what you’ve done.” Now his voice was a whisper. “How will you ever pay for it on your silly salary.”
She didn’t answer but ran out the door. She knew she’d never be back. At the hospital she needed five stitches. The emergency doctor picked glass out of her scalp. She kept one of the pieces, a reminder of her narrow escape.
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