Operation

The medical supplies from the local hospital total thousands, but for some reason there isn't a scalpel among them. They chock it up to “collateral damage,” and proceed.

“Carve deeper. I want there to be scars,” he manages through clenched teeth, gripping the arm and back of the park bench like the victim of a gassing.

The sick sounds of glass through flesh echoed in the empty park. There is a sucking sound.

“I’m doing my best,” she says, pressing the ragged edge of the merlot bottle harder into his right atrium, for emphasis.

Scrape scrape, cut cut, slash slash.

“There, happy?”

She straightens, exhaling heavily, hands covered with plasma and bits of ventricle.

“Perfect. Now where’s my shirt?”

He pulls together the ragged edges of his chest cavity, and pins them with the tattered flannel button-down she throws him.

“Well, nice knowing you,” he throws back, staggering slightly to find his feet.

A slow rain begins to wash the traces of blood from his back. Her fingers feel the same relief.

“I’m not paying you back for the wine!” she yells, half-screams, waving the jagged edged cap and stem in his direction.

“Oh you earned it, kid. Don’t worry about it; you deserve it,” comes the final response. He half-waves a weak hand over his shoulder, without turning, and mumbles a final salvo of words, nearing the center of the field:

“Plus, you drank most of it, right?”