Last Dance

By Brian K. Bolen

Harsh words explode followed by sharp crashes. This is our typical Friday night dance. But tonight feels different: ominous, deadly.

He advances, serrated knife in hand. I back away, silver serving tray between trembling fingers.

“I’ve got the advantage,” he trumpets. “It’s over, Christine.”

I sidestep his swipes, making swift counter blocks. To my right is the salt shaker. I uncap and fling it at him.

Shrieks fill the air. Seconds later, he evaporates.

Shaking my hair out of my eyes, I see a card. Swiftly, I dial.

“Hello?”

“I need my house cleansed again. My husband still refuses to vacate.”