Fiona put her wine glass down with a thud, sometime between removing the glass from her lips and it hitting the table she had lost her equilibrium. Perfect. She considered this the right kind of drunk for the arduous task at hand. She refilled her wine glass and set the bottle down next to the other brown paper bag she’d arrived home with half an hour earlier. She picked it up and, finding the opening, tipped the bag upside down. She watched as the contents rustled down the length of the bag and landed crisply on the dining table. It bounced from one end to the other than settled into a smooth perfectly weighted spin on the spot. The straight razor was closed, the blade folded into the polished ebony handle, the silver tang of the blade curled off the end like the hammer of a gun. As gravity slowly curtailed the momentum, the sliver tang came to rest pointing at her phone. Right then. It lit up.
On the screen was his name, ‘Bryce’ followed by a deep red love heart emoji. She found herself swearing, she’d forgotten to change it. Beneath his name was a picture of him, it was her favourite picture of him. One she’d snapped early in their relationship. He looked so happy, all of his attention on her. His smile, shy. The phone buzzed loudly against the table. She let it ring out. She was happy never to speak to him again.
She took another gulp of wine, and her screen lit up.
Bryce again, a text this time.
’Did you come by the apartment?? A whole bunch of my stuff is gone.’
She looked at the razor and caught her reflection in the polished handle. She was smiling.
She shot a look at the bag she had dumped by the door. Every little thing Bryce cherished was in there. She hadn’t gone there specifically to steal his stuff, all Fiona wanted were the photos from the photo draw, but once she started taking things from draws, she just couldn't stop.
Her phone lit up again. ’Fuck me. Did you take the photo draw?’
She looked to the other side of the wine bottle at the very draw in question. It was full to the brim of printed photographs. He was always insisting they printed their photos. He’d stick them on the fridge, in frames, and would regularly rotate them, so there was always something new to see. He insisted that holding a picture was infinitely better than looking at it on a screen. Fiona agreed, it was one of the many things she had loved about him.
She took the top picture out of the draw. It was a recent one of the two of them at a friends birthday party. He looked happy. She looked tired. She picked up the razor, pushed down on the tang and flipped open the blade. It felt good in her hand, no wonder he loved it so much. She held it aloft as she drained the glass of wine into her mouth with her other hand. She swallowed hard and burped. No. This was the perfect amount of drunk. She threw the glass to the ground, not even giving it a second thought. She placed her hand onto the photo and leaned in with the blade. She started at the top of his head and traced a line around his shape. The edge was so sharp that it made short work of the stiff photo paper. When Fiona finished, she simply popped Bryce out of the photo. She looked at it anew and marvelled at the absence of him. Without him grinning idiotically beside her, she looked far less tired.
Her phone lit up again. ’Did you take my razor???’