Phone a Friend (a drabble)

"What’s next?"

The tears were dry, but hands transitioned from slippery wet to a tacky, gummy film.

She hadn't moved from where she’d landed on the floor, leaning against spattered drywall.

He took in the sight of her. Broken nose, black eye, ripped blouse.

Familiar Zippo sounds filled the room after she nodded to his silent question.

"Give me one."

"You don't smoke."

She absently picked dried blood under her fingernails. "It's a day for firsts," she whispered, glancing at what remained of a man who fancied himself pater familias.

Shrugging, he gave up his Winston and started the cleanup.