You'd been watching me work on the car all day. I couldn't get out from underneath. You laughed—and I saw. My brother came over and we drank and later you fell down the steps and broke it. Your wrist hurt so bad, you told me, “Never touch it again.” That's what happened. That's what you tell your friends.
            When you witnessed my searching Amazon, unable to spell the word ELECTRIC, you looked away, coughed into your hand—and you dropped my glass on your foot. It smashed and the shards got you. That's what happened. That's what you tell your friends.
            You wanted to call your sister Susan. She had the baby. I wanted to call John. He’d called me earlier. Your phone died. You pulled at mine. I let go. It was your fault. It was your hand that hit. It’s not even bad though, looks like a beauty queen's lip, almost pretty—that's what you tell your friends.
            You shoveled the entire driveway out. I threw snow in your face. It wasn't funny when I slipped. It wasn't funny to laugh at me on the ice, pawing at the ground, trying to get up when I was down. I smashed it hard into your shirt, let the snow crush between your breasts.
I locked the door, rummaged through the cabinet, forgot you were out there in the cold—because the fall hurt my back, because the way you laughed—tell them or the police or the neighbor or your mom or no one at all. Tell them on the hotline I said hello.
            And in the summer, your best friend Jane stayed over all day while you worked. My clothes on the floor. I told you she'd been here a few minutes, standing in our bedroom, waiting for you to come home. I dressed in the bathroom. That's what happened.     
You stayed out late, forgot to bring cigarettes. Your grandmother's German figurines, the little spoons from fifty states, they fell, bent, broke, whatever you want to hear.     
You went through my phone, into my wallet, you moved my keys, you forgot to lock the door, you smirked, you turned the channel, you finished my sentence—you got in a car accident. Nothing that won't heal. It could be worse. You could’ve died. Maybe, you should stay inside, rest. I'm taking care of you.
            Tell everyone.
            I'd been drinking all evening, holding your wrist damn tight. I held you to keep my balance, told you, “You’re not worth what I’m paying.” It was a joke. 
Leave that part out.  
            I fell forward, burning myself on the grill, letting you go in the process. The heat hurt. I shot away from the pain, threw myself onto the steak fork you held. The two long steel prongs pierced me, in my kidney, out my spleen. 
            You were only standing there. 
            That’s what happened.
            That's what you’ll tell your friends. 

Christopher David DiCicco writes weird minimalist stories. Work in or forthcoming in Superstition Review, Bartleby Snopes, Litro, WhiskeyPaper, Sundog Lit, Literary Orphans, Psychopomp, Five Quarterly, Fiction Southeast, Pea River Journal and other fine publications. Visit for more published work.