Flash Fiction 3rd Place: Like Teabags, Overflowing by Hannah Retallick

You empty the food waste before you leave because the soggy mess glares at you like it’s thinking we’ve been waiting forever, you useless excuse of a woman. The husband watches from the doorway. He could do this job but won’t; you’ll be lucky if he feeds the hamsters. Your mind flicks to your childhood hamsters, how reluctant you were to leave them alone and how devastated you were when they eventually crossed the rainbow bridge. Sammy was cradled in your palm, stroked by loving fingers, but poor Blacky was found stiff and cold, becoming the villain of your lifelong nightmares. It was worse returning to a corpse than having death grow in your hand where the warmth of life still lingered. You shake your head hard, as though the memories could be flung away like the used teabags; dried up patties, gungy lumps covered in fluff, juices seeping into the fragile white liner. The husband hugs you goodbye and says have a good– He doesn’t finish. Maybe he’s forgotten where you’re going, or why you’re going, or maybe it doesn’t matter to him that much. Where you’re going: The best spa around. Why you’re going: It’s your best friend’s hen weekend. Why it doesn’t matter to him that much: Unknown. That question clings like old chewing gum for the forty-minute drive to the old country house and won’t come unstuck even when you get out of the car and are greeted by a loud gaggle of girlies who drag you in for welcome drinks. The hens won’t understand, especially not the queen on the brink of happiness who’s as bubbly as her raised glass of champagne. Cheers! And what would you say anyway? You take a gulp, swallow too suddenly. It bulges in your throat and your eyes prickle. That gives you an excuse to run your fingernail over your tear ducts. The maid of honour starts to cry, gripping the bride around the waist, and at that moment, you think screw it, I’ll let the tears fall, and an arm finds your waist too. And now you’re not really in the room anymore. It’s like the whole weekend has already happened, whizzing into fast forward. You’ll be out of there like someone who’s forgotten to put the bins out. And you’re on your way back. And you’re pulling into the driveway. And you’re yanking the handbrake. This is how it will go: Eventually the husband will notice. He will come out to ask why you’re just sitting in the car and why you’re back later than you said and why one of the hamsters won’t eat. You will tell him it was a lovely weekend, thanks. You’re in limbo, waiting, mulling over one thing you should have done before you left home. He will ask again why you’re sitting in the car and this time you will tell him. He will seethe on the driveway, decomposing.