She managed to get the key in the lock and open the door. She took a few steps into the room before she collapsed onto a kitchen chair.
“My God, that was a party and a half.”
Michael came over to her.
“Are you okay? You smell of booze. You’re drunk.”
“So what’s your excuse?”
“Jesus, Angie. What’s this about? Where’ve you been? What’s happened?”
“New year, babe. New year. Saying goodbye to the old. That’s you. And saying hello to the new. That’s Eric Thompson if you need to know.”
“You’re drunk, Angie. Let’s get you to bed.”
She looked at him. “You’re finished, Michael. Let’s get you out of my flat.” And turned to the still open doorway. “Come inside Eric Thompson and help me throw this pile of shit out. It’s time for him to go.”
And in walked Eric Thompson. “Happy new year, Michael. Angie says time for you to go.”
Later that night, just before dawn, in a small forest clearing just beyond the edge of town, Michael paused in his digging to marvel at the way in which an ordinary kitchen knife can play such an extraordinary part in the lives (and deaths) of everyday people.
© Patrick Prinsloo
Written for wednesday-write-in-21