Love Hurts
By Julius Olofsson
When she throws a punch at him, it’s not just cartilage that is dislodged. It’s perception and life and things inside that have been dwelling.
He doesn’t even sense the pain; it becomes part of the memory as the memory forms—fondness and fascination congregating together with pristine realness in mint condition.
He saw her as he seldom sees people anymore. They are simply padding, something that could easily die in front of him—bowels disintegrating, seeping out of lotion-tended orifices. He would step over them.
At the parking lot, he caught up as she dropped her phone. He picked it up and said: “hey, wait.”
He grabbed her shoulder—no words—just physical, blunt action.
She replied with honest, glorious violence.
“Gushing” becomes a mediocre word as blood streams from his nose down his chin, altering the hue of his knitted jumper that’s supposed to be forest green but now is more reminiscent of “carnage” as a color.
He tries to explain that she dropped her phone, waving it like a white flag—she snatches it from him, kicks him in the shin, and he can feel with his finger later that night where her shoe created a crevasse of bone.
Weeks pass by.
He hopes.
He hopes so that he won’t implode within himself and cause his teeth and mouth to start eating the tongue as his body is turned inside-out.
One day she’s there. They are each other and each other’s shadows. They make eye contact at the cash register, and he nods with inherited politeness. She does nothing.
He heads for his car: she’s there, outside the entrance. Without him being able to parry, she swings her grocery bag at him—his eyebrow gets slit by a surprisingly sharp bottle of conditioner, and everything swells.
She screams “fuck,” and wonders who the fuck he is, as he says “no one,” feeling that it’s the first thing ever said by him free from lies.
At home, he sets an extra plate opposite of him with gentleness and movements that are mild in a way he’s never been mild before.
His nose heals.
The gash becomes a scab.
No more bandages to hold everything together. Nothing that mends. The cleft grows smaller—whittled down by the purpose that comes with whatever.
He doesn’t seek her out—life continues as before she trampled it. He sees her now and then at the store. One time, as they crossed the street, walking past each other, she glanced at him, causing him to feel tingling acid in the corner of his eye as he tethered his gaze to the ground, hoping she’d body slam him and rub his face against the asphalt.
He dream dreams of her providing him with bruises.
They stand behind each other in line, still no vowels or consonants—speaking is so crudely plebeian. Instead, their hands graze as they both are to grab a plastic bag.
As he leaves the store one day, she awaits him. She smiles and says her name is “Lena,” but she headbutts him before he can give his name—blissfully jolting his life.
He falls, sitting on his ass, looking at her.
“Get up!”
And he does.
Up on his feet, she jumps him, kneeing him in the gut—some new taste arrives from below. She clings to him, she bites his cheek, and he feels her lips against his skin.
He accepts her touch—every sensory receptor working as one. A cooperative stance, a take on what can be. A “Lena” who can clog that hole so something, finally, can overflow.
She lets go of his cheek, smiles red, and forces her elbow against the side of his head, and he feels love reverberate through his eardrum as it bursts.
She yells at him. Screams softness.
“Fucking fucked-up fuck the rainbow!”
It’s poetry.
She unleashes an impressive roundhouse kick, and something feels off as his sternum embraces her heel. Breathing becomes tedious, boring, and difficult, but there’s a surplus of air in the world. He can breathe later.
She takes a beat. This is his turn. Maybe this is what she yearns for. They covet as one. Seekers. They shop for stuff, and perhaps she, too, sets a second plate and imagines that her bookshelf holds photo albums with no more room for pictures.
As he doesn’t do anything, she encourages him with an uppercut of distinction—his chin becomes a razor that cuts gum, serving him a portion of iron.
She’s winded now as he spits a mixture of saliva and bile.
He cements his shoes to the pavement, chaining them. Then, with all the love he feels, he shoots his fist deep into her face, altering her features—disfiguring that signature nose, tearing her eyes that possess understanding, freckles that become difficult to detect as blood spatter adds to the constellation.
She stumbles, falls and yanks a tooth—a sacrifice. Nothing is right. All is right.
He says his name: “Anders,” and she says, “thanks.”
As she gets up, he kicks her soft stomach as hard as he can, causing her to collapse once again.
On the ground, she rolls around, clutching and moaning—smiles with a gap. He extends a hand and helps her. They are rom-com close now, circling each other’s gravitational pulls. They orbit. Stars are what they are.
So much blood—all stemming from the heart.
She places her hand on his chest, and he shudders, but there’s no violence left to be doled out. She takes his hand and mirrors her own actions. They skip beats. They accept silence.
They can kiss now.
THE END
Author Bio: Born in Sweden, Julius works as a narrative designer in video games and writes anything from flash fiction and books to games and screenplays. He’s been longlisted in The Bath Short Story Award, The Bath Flash Fiction Award and The Aurora Prize for Writing. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Roi Fainéant Press, Lavender Bones Magazine, JAKE, The Airgonaut, Sage Cigarettes, The Heimat Review, Hidden Peak Press and elsewhere. He’s found on Twitter: @PaperBlurt