Author’s Note: Before anyone judges the rampant clichés in this piece, this was by design. It was a submission to the Not Quite Write competition, which requires throwing out a common rule of writing. In this case the prompts were 1) include the word “punch” and 2) include the action “spilling”; the rule to be broken was “avoid clichés” (i.e., must use them).
The doctor’s diagnosis was like a sucker-punch.
“Amnesia?” Skye rubbed her temples. “How?”
Dr. Ponds cleared his throat. “Ethan took a nasty blow to the head.”
Inga stomped her foot. “He fucked around and found out. I told the dumbass not to cross the spillway.” She pulled Skye into her arms. “C’mere, Sugar.”
Skye leaned against her lifelong friend. “He doesn’t remember me.”
“Memory is capricious,” said the doctor. “It might be temporary.”
“What if it’s permanent?” Skye dropped her head into her hands. “Our wedding is next month!”
Dr. Ponds shrugged, checking his watch.
“Skye, honey, come to my place,” said Inga. “I’ll make chamomile and run you a bath. There’s nothing more you can do here.”
Skye sniffled, nodded, followed.
The surroundings blurred in her periphery, images running together in her mind.
Exiting the hospital.
Speeding down Highway 1.
Entering Inga’s seaside condo.
Bubbles rising in a clawfoot tub.
“Let me help you,” said Inga, tugging Skye’s blouse from her jeans.
“What are you doing?”
“Pampering.” Inga grinned. “Now shut up and get in the damn tub.”
Skye slumped on the cool rim, recoiling from the cloying vanilla bath beads. “What were you two doing at the dam, anyway?”
Inga hesitated, fidgeting. “Ethan had planned a surprise for you. Said he wanted to run it by me.”
“Why so early?” Skye said, an eyebrow arched. “And why not over the phone?”
Inga frowned. “Well, I—”
“Are you having …”
“What, an affair?” Inga guffawed. “With Ethan?”
“Is that so unbelievable?”
“Honey, if he was the last man on Earth, he couldn’t pry my legs apart! What do you even see in him? He’s punching way above his weight.” Inga eased herself beside Skye. “Maybe his amnesia is for the best.”
Skye’s mouth fell open. “Ethan is w-wonderful.”
“So wonderful he tried to nail me at the dam?”
Skye scoffed. “Oh, please.”
“When he said, ‘I chose the wrong woman,’ and leaned in for a kiss, I punched the cocksucker. Busted his lip.”
“Liar!”
“But he wasn’t done.” Inga stood, revealing purple welts beneath her skirt. “I fought back. Pushed him. He fell. The spillway took him. Shame it didn’t finish the job.”
Skye gasped.
“He doesn’t deserve you, anyway. You belong with someone like me.” Inga leaned in, arms open wide.
Confused, Skye twisted away.
Inga lost her balance. The rug caught her toe, while the corner of the sink caught the base of her head. Blood spilled from her skull.
Skye threw herself onto her friend. “Wake up!”
Another voice. “Babe, wake up!”
Ethan?
Skye opened her eyes on a picnic blanket at the park, Ethan’s icy blues a picture of concern.
Inga stood nearby, her dress fluttering, hints of purple beneath the hem.
Bruises?
Inga modestly adjusted her dress. Their eyes connected.
“I’m not feeling well, Ethan,” Skye whispered. “Better take me home.”
The sunset was warm against her back while her feet cooled.
What was the return policy on that wedding dress?