Act I

We were in love. Just hadn’t admitted it yet.

I arrived on time—that is, early—for her party. Toured her apartment. Her highlight: Chekhov’s gun on the mantle. Certificate of authenticity on letterhead.

Act II

Twice, we made eye contact across the crowded space. Grinned.

In the kitchen, I brushed against her. Power died in the home, all electricity rerouting between us.

At last, guests departed. She crooked her finger. “Help with something?”

Act III

My smile lit the apartment. I crept over, eager to “help.”

She aimed Chekhov’s gun. “Sorry, I’m a writer,” she said. Like that explained things. Then, she fired.

(This is the 2nd in a series of flash fiction entries for agent Janet Reid’s flash contests, which I was fortunate to win a few times. Janet passed away in April 2024.)